Page 84 of Zero Pucks Given
Shit shitshit.
I took an Uber home while scrolling through TikTok comments on my phone. There was a ton of engagement on my videos in the past three hours, and it wasnotthe good kind.
“This is why you don’t sleep around before a playoff game.”
“THAT’S who Grayson’s dating? He can do better.”
“I picked the Surge to win last night. You owe me $100.”
“I hope you fucking kill yourself, you fucking bitch.”
I hastily closed the app after reading that last one. What the hell?
I quickly searched for the TMZ article. It wasn’t hard to find. The article was a scathing criticism of Grayson, accusing him of partying the day before a playoff game. There were more photos further down the page. One of them was from the game, showing Grayson sitting onthe bench, twisting around to look over his shoulder at me in the crowd.
“Where’d you fly in from?” the Uber driver asked me.
“Edmonton,” I said absently while reading the article. They had the nerve to blamemefor the loss!
“Hope you didn’t fly there for the hockey games,” the Uber driver muttered. “Glad we won the first game, but last night wasrough. Shows how young and inexperienced this team is. Going out drinking, partying with hookers. I hope the coach tears them a new asshole. Gets them in line before game three.”
“Hookers?” I blurted out. “What do you mean, hookers?”
“Maybe notliteralhookers. But they’re the next closest thing.” He put on his turn signal and changed lanes. “You know the kinds of women who go after hockey players. They’re only interested in one thing. I thought Steele was smarter than that.”
My phone rang. It was an unknown number, and I answered it to make the Uber driver stop talking. “Hello?”
“Josie Harper? This is Christina, I’m with FanDuel. The online gambling site. I don’t know if you received my voicemail from this morning, but I was wondering if you will be attending game three between the San Antonio Surge and Edmonton Oilers later this week.”
“What… why do you care?”
“Your presence is affecting the betting odds for the game. The Surge are currently favored by half a goal, but if you’re attending and sitting behind the bench again, we may choose to shift the odds.”
Oh my God. Did people actually believe this kind of bullshit?
I hung up, and immediately called Grayson. He didn’t answer, so I texted him asking if he’d seen the news. Although I don’t know how he could have remained ignorant unless he was still sleeping.
When I got home, I opened my laptop and began deleting comments on my videos. The last thing I wanted was for myactualviewers—the ones who watched my channel for the makeup tips—to seeall the hate I was receiving from rabid hockey fans. For a while, my mouse moved back and forth on the screen. Select comment, delete. Select, delete.
But it was all too much. After spending half an hour deleting at least two hundred comments, I refreshed my metrics page and saw that I had a hundrednewcomments on various videos. It was like playing whack-a-mole, except the game was rigged against me.
I wondered how all of the hate would affect my views and sales. It was too early to tell, since the TMZ article had only been live for a few hours. Maybe it wouldn’t change anything.
But I couldn’t shake this feeling of dread.
In between deleting batches of comments, I continued texting Grayson. By mid-afternoon, it was obvious that he was ignoring me. A thought came to me, one that sent a chill up my spine: did he believe what everyone was saying? Did he blame me for his poor performance in the game?
No. He’d explicitly told me that itwasn’tmy fault. He was probably just busy. After all, he was the hockey player in this situation. If the media shitstorm was bad for me, it was probably much worse for him.
While I deleted more angry comments on my videos, I considered my options. I could release a video on my channel defending myself. Or I could apologize. I had nothingtoapologize for, but it was worth doing if it stopped the firehose of hate that was currently blasting me in the face.
Before I could make a decision, it was time for me to go to work. The Spurs had their own playoff game tonight against the Lakers, and I had to be at the arena two hours before the game. Sharon gave me a long hug when I got there. For once, I was looking forward to shutting off my brain and serving beer to customers for several hours. I was afraid some of the fans would recognize me and call me out. Fortunately, nobody did.
But after an hour of working, I was back to obsessing over whathad happened. I told my boss I had to use the restroom, then went upstairs to the suite level. One of the security guards tried to stop me from entering the owner’s suite, but then one of the employees recognized me and let me inside.
Bob Trent was sitting at his desk by the wall. He glanced up at me, then continued typing on his laptop. “There she is. The internet’s newest punching bag.”
I strode over to him and said, “This isnotmy fault. Those photos were from dates that youmademe go on. You’re the one who scheduled them between two playoff games.”
