Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

Hayes

I t’s my last day in Seattle. I can’t wait to get back to LA. While I enjoy traveling—it’s what I’ve always known—since settling in Los Angeles, I love the times when I can just stay in one place. Plus, for some reason, I keep expecting Rylan to jump from around every corner and point out to everyone that I had secret, back-office sex with him…or for it to somehow show up online. Like, he knew who I was and tricked me, trying to pull one over on someone from the Jilted Exes’ Club.

And yet, this quiet voice in my head tells me Rylan wouldn’t do that. There’s something too genuine about him, but then, I never would have thought Malcolm would do the things he had either. Clearly, I can’t tell a good man from a bad one.

Still, my time with Rylan had been electrifying, gratifying, awe-inspiring, and— stop that. I had my fling with a sex god. There’s no reason I should still be thinking about him. In fact, one of the things I’m most excited about doing when I get back to LA is finding my next fling. I wasn’t joking about having all the sex , but after how mind-blowing it was with Rylan, I’m even more inspired to continue on this path.

I’m taking a late flight tonight to give myself enough time to take care of any last-minute things at the Seattle Rockwell.

It’s not until I’m at a restaurant in the airport that I finally breathe a sigh of relief. There’s been no stories online, no Jilted Exes’ Club Member Blows Man in Bar . Believe me, I’ve checked.

Hockey is on the television in the crowded sports bar, but I can deal with that. I sit down at a table and pull out my laptop. The waitress brings me a menu, and I order a burger and fries before pulling up a profit-and-loss report.

I don’t like to wear earbuds in public. I always feel like I’m missing something going on around me or like someone is going to attack me from behind. Clearly, I have trust issues. Why didn’t Malcolm ping them?

But anyway, I do pretty well tuning out what’s going on around me and working. Part of that comes from the fact that for most of my life—okay, and maybe even now too—I fade into the background. People never paid attention to me, so I learned not to pay attention to them.

The waitress brings me my food, and I’m mid-bite into a hamburger I really need, when a sentence breaks through my concentration. “Why the fuck couldn’t Rylan Pierce play this bad against Seattle the other night?”

My head snaps up to the three men at the bar, watching the game. My stomach twists up, but I tell myself it’s for no reason. There are likely a lot of Rylans in Seattle. It’s absolutely impossible that I hooked up with a hockey player. Are NHL players even out? Is that a thing? If they are, they’re definitely not sleeping with men like me.

I laugh at my ridiculousness and try to ignore the tightness in my chest. This is just one of those moments where I’m being me and freaking out over nothing. Hockey players would be missing teeth or something, right? Rylan had all of his, and they were beautiful…maybe unnaturally white and straight, which is exactly what this hockey player probably is—straight.

I take another bite of my burger, but the nausea sweeping through my gut makes it hard to swallow.

“Jesus, he just let Smith right by him. Two nights ago the guy could do no wrong, and tonight he’s playing like a joker,” Loud Hockey Fan says.

Two nights ago…

Coincidence, coincidence, coincidence.

Flashes of Hot Body Rylan’s chest play through my mind…how big he was…how hard… The guy hadn’t seemed real. I exit out of my work, heart racing, sweat beading on my brow.

I’m being ridiculous. No way it’s him. I’ll simply look up Rylan Pierce and see that it’s someone completely different from my Rylan, and then I’ll be able to get back to what I was doing.

I type in his name and hockey and…dark hair…blue eyes…mischievous grin…large pecs that I can’t see beneath the hockey uniform but know they’re there. The airport spins around me. How in the hell did I score a hockey player? I hate that sport. I didn’t like it before The Malcolm Incident, but now I despise it.

Even so, that’s not what has my attention now. My heart nearly beats out of my chest. My hands fist as my gaze holds fast on the team name: Los Angeles Rebels. They have a contract with the Rockwell, which I knew, but I didn’t put two and two together when I saw him. Why would I?

A scene from Carrie flashes through my head, and I imagine them all laughing at me the same way Carrie’s mom told her they would. He knew. He must have. Why would he do that? Did he get off on hooking up with one of the guys from the Jilted Exes’ Club? Did he sit around and laugh with his teammates about getting the guy who was humiliated at his game to suck his cock?

I slam my computer closed, not wanting to look at his stupid, sexy face, his smile that looks so sincere and earnest when he’s nothing but a lying liar who lied.

Jesus, I can’t even be a slut right—a word I mean in the most sex-positive way possible.

I stare daggers at the TV. Hockey players are doing hockey things I can’t pretend to understand or care about.

“Rylan Pierce is really off his game tonight,” the announcer says. Ha! Serves him right. “He played one of the best games in his career in Seattle. It just goes to show that these guys are human, with good days and bad, but man, tonight is really, really bad.”

And though I try to be glad he’s sucking tonight, I feel bad for him. I’ve only had people talking about me publicly for a few months, and I already want to burn down the internet. Rylan has a job where every one of his mistakes is highlighted on TV, online, and—no! I will not feel sorry for him. Malcolm gave me sob stories, and that’s how he got under my skin. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

Deep in my mind, I realize there’s a strong possibility this is a coincidence, but I can’t let myself believe it. Giving people the benefit of the doubt is what got me in trouble with Malcolm, and I’m never doing that again.

I hope Rylan Pierce loses every single game the rest of the season. I never want to see him again.

*

I can’t stop stalking Rylan Pierce’s social media pages. The Rebels are in Detroit right now, and the people commenting on his last posts aren’t happy with him. I don’t understand the negativity online, the harsh things people will say to others, why they think their opinion matters so much that they must give it so freely when no one asks for it. They seem to get some kind of joy out of it, highlighting others being mean and trying to see who can say the cruelest thing.

Still, I refuse to feel sorry for him…okay, that’s a lie. I refuse to let my feeling a little bit sorry for him change anything about my vow to stay far, far away from Rylan Pierce. I don’t trust him. Can’t trust him. Will never, ever trust anyone again for as long as I live, but…he is hot. Like wow. I kinda forgot how hot he is, and the fact that I pulled that for a mutual BJ is pretty flattering. Too bad I hate him…and it’s also too bad that said BJ with him wasn’t a sign of things to come.

I rode my high of how it felt to drive Rylan out of his mind, was inspired by the knowledge that it couldn’t have just been him that made our hookup go so well, and I got back on the hookup app.

Zero stars. Do not recommend.

Turns out having lots of sex isn’t as easy as I thought. It might be because I’m… finicky is a good word, but everyone annoyed me, and the one guy I did decide to meet up with flaked on me.

Twice in two days.

So how do I respond? By stalking a professional hockey player. I don’t know why I can’t get him out of my head, why I can’t let it go. I must admit, though, this is a theme for me. Not the wild sex with strangers, but the obsessing. It’s in my nature.

I set my phone down and try to focus on my work.

If I knew whether Rylan tricked me, I could get over this. I could move on and forget it ever happened, but the not knowing is making me obsess.

Work. I can do this. I love work. I thrive at work. I don’t ever struggle to keep on task—or at least I haven’t until now.

An email notification pops up on my computer screen. I click it because it’s not like I’m actually getting anything done, and as soon as I do, I see the subject line— Fellow Member of the Jilted Exes’ Club —and the sender—Donovan Carter. Donovan is a twenty-eight-year-old resident of Los Angeles, and a nurse. How do I know that? Because he’s a member of the Jilted Exes’ Club.

I don’t want to open the message. What I really want is to delete it, but I also know me, and no way I can stop myself from finding out what he wants.

Hayes,

Sorry for messaging you at work. I couldn’t find another email address for you, and I didn’t want to send a DM on social media. It felt less personal, and considering we were dating the same man, I think we’re past that. I’ve sent messages to both you and Anthony. I’m not sure if you know, but he’s another local man who was dating Malcolm. I was thinking maybe we could meet up sometime, and…maybe be friends? Maybe some good will come of it. Anyway, let me know what you think!

I hope you’re doing well.

Donovan

Meet up? I don’t think I can do that. All it would do is remind me of how I screwed up, how stupid I was to trust Malcolm.

I close the email and force myself to work.