Page 7 of Damsel in Defense
CECE:Don’t panic.Deep breaths.
Photo?What photo?The first text I got from her only mentioned an article that was about to be published about me.Now there’s a freakin’ photo?
Another buzz.
CECE:How the hell did this happen?
I blink, my heart doing that awful free-fall thing in my chest.
No.
No, no, no.
The image pops up in our chat.It’s blurry—taken from behind a hedge or through some plant—but it’s unmistakablyme.Draped over a man’s arms.Soaking wet.Wild-eyed and clearly not okay.And him?
Mason.
Big.Solid.Unreasonably attractive Mason.
And that would be bad enough, but Cece—bless her, I guess—follows up with a third message.
CECE:Mason’s manager is aware.So don’t worry about that.
Wait.What?
VICTORIA:What do you mean his manager?You know who he is?
CECE:YOU DON’T?That’s Mason Warren.Toronto Nighthawks.Defenseman.Aka “Golden Boy.”How did I not know you were fake-passing-out on an NHL hottie?Jesus, Tori.
I stare at the name.Mason Warren.It does ring a bell.I’m aware of the Nighthawks.There are advertisements and banners everywhere in the city supporting the hockey team.
Oh, wait.I slap a hand to my forehead, remembering.
Of course.Of course, he’s one of the most photographed, most adored athletes in the damn league.My brother probably has his jersey hanging in his closet.
I slump back into the seat.Maybe I’m still sleeping, and this is all a twisted dream.
I thump my head on the back of the seat, willing myself to wake up.A sharp pain in my shoulder blades quickly brings me back to reality.
This isn’t a dream.This is my life.
My chaotic and disastrous life.
I type out a half response, then delete it.Cece means well, but I can’t deal with spin and “staying ahead of the narrative” right now.My entire body still feels raw from last night’s panic attack and the messy, stupid comfort I let myself feel in a stranger’s arms.
Well.Not a stranger.Not anymore.
God, poor Mason.He’s about to be dragged into my mess.
I slide my phone into my bag, zip it closed, and physically shove it over to the next seat like I’m punishing it.No more surprises.I need to disconnect until I land back in Toronto.
Future Victoria can worry about the fallout.
The airport is blessedly quiet.Early flyers and weary honeymooners shuffle around, too tired to notice me.I keep my head down, sunglasses and hat on, and make it through security without being recognized, which feels like a big win.
For this flight back to the city, I splurged for first class.I told myself it was a treat after the wedding and all the drama that had happened before.I just wanted to sit, stretch my legs in comfort, and drink the air’s finest orange juice.
I sink into my plush window seat, exhale slowly, and let my body turn to mush one limb at a time.I sit there, eyes closed for only a minute, before I feel it.
