Page 117 of Rule 1: Never Accidentally Marry Your Teammate
Luke elbows Troy again.
“You are both so funny,” Troy says in a flat voice. “I love spending time with you guys.”
I’m sure Luke is contemplating tackling Troy, even though none of us are football players.
“Okay, so you shouldn’t do any commercials that involve speaking,” Luke says.
Troy glares at him, then sighs, and begins his own forced laughter as we near the paparazzi.
I’m not sure that Troy’s laughter is an improvement over his glaring, but hopefully it will look better in pictures.
Because the paparazzi are snapping pictures now. Shutters click, and the world explodes in yellow.
Tension sweeps through me, but I pretend everything is fine, fine, fine.
Because the only thing worse than Finn ripping my heart out in public, then letting the whole world see and comment, is making it seem I am as broken-hearted as I am.
Finn asked his lawyer how to get an annulment for us. For all the world knows, I begged him to contact his lawyer. For all the world knows, I am equally unbothered by the prospect of a life without Finn Carrington. For all the world knows, I am completely happy hanging out with my two friends Luke and Troy, and this is no story.
It’s not the most mature, therapist approved action, but frankly I don’t care in the least.
I don’t want my face splattered over magazine stands and on the internet. I don’t want fans to speculate about what happened between Finn and me, and I don’t want to read that some of them think everything was fake.
Even if it was.
Because I developed real emotions all the same, but if I were to confess that to anyone, I would only get pity or laughter.
Because I should have known better.
I did know better.
I just couldn’t help myself because Finn is amazing in every sense of the word.
Troy and Luke flank me, shielding me from photographers. I keep my back straight, and I try to feign nonchalance.
I’m relieved once we enter the arena, then I remember this is whereI’ll see Finn.
The day has only just begun, and my exhaustion has already run me down, like a porter traversing the oxygen-thin air of the Himalayas carrying a heavy backpack, conscious he’ll only have to perform the same task again and again and again.
This is why people don’t recommend workplace romances. This is why team management was nervous when we declared our relationship. They’re older than us, and more used to seeing relationships fail.
And though I’ve never had a relationship that didn’t fail, part of me must have thought we would be together for longer. Maybe forever.
But I at least thought we would get a year.
I was certain there would be at least that amount of time.
I think of all the kisses, Finn and I will never share, all the intimate moments, all the dinners, all the lunches, all the breakfasts, all the movies we won’t watch side by side, all the times we won’t catch each other’s gaze first after a victory on the ice.
The future stretches before me in an empty manner, dull and dreary and dreadful.
We continue down the hallway toward the locker room, then to the training room, and I try not to see the pity on the faces of the few people we pass. The photographers are not here, thank goodness, but that means Troy and Luke are now silent. They no longer feign laughter, and the air feels heavy.
Luke pushes open the door to the training room.
Finn is inside, lifting weights. His muscles, slick with sweat, bulge in their always interesting manner.
His face is grim and stern.
