Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“Is this all you called for?” I ask him.
“No,” he says. “I also called to tell you that I don’t like him.”
“Duly noted.” I roll my lips.
“Rumors are going around that you two are dating,” he asks quietly.
“Don’t listen to rumors, Matthew,” I tell him. “Rumors were going around that you are too old to be on the ice.” I know he hates that rumor.
“I am not too old, dammit.” He raises his voice. “I don’t like him.”
“Why?” I ask him. “Why don’t you like him?”
“Because he’s sly, and he’s trying to date my sister,” he says, and I throw my head back and laugh. “Fuckers. I have to go. Karrie is winking at me.”
“Gross,” I say, and he disconnects. I look down at my phone, and I see that I’m tagged in a picture on Twitter. I click to open the app, and there it is.
Me standing clapping after his goal.
Caught @ZaraStone cheering on her man @EvanRichards.
I smile till I see what Evan commented on the post.
@ZaraStone thanks for coming. Maybe next time we can actually meet.
What the fuck? I’m so tempted to answer back not to flatter yourself, but I don’t. Instead, I do the grown-up thing and take a screenshot and send it to him via text. I don’t even know what to write, so I write nothing and just toss my phone aside.
I take off his jersey and toss it in the basket, making a mental note to add bleach to the wash that day. I take my luggage out of the hallway closet and start filling it. I will be in Chicago for three days, a max of four, so I pack and obviously overpack, thinking about all the places I’m going to go but knowing I’ll probably be curled up in a ball at the end of the night.
I’m on my way to Chicago to meet with Hollywood’s Princess Kellie. She releases a new album in a couple of months, and she wants me to work with her on her video shots and also to go over her interview outfits. I love working with her, and it helps that her husband is fine to look at.
I finish packing and have my bag ready by the door. She is sending her private plane for me, so there are no long lines. The car will be here at eight to get me, so I set my alarm for six thirty. I ignore all the tags from Twitter, and I put my phone on airplane mode so the notifications don’t keep me up.
I slide into bed once I wash off my makeup, and I turn off the light. The clock shows me it’s almost one a.m. Tomorrow is going to be a rough one.
* * *
“Welcome aboard, Ms. Stone. We will be taking off in about five minutes,” the flight attendant tells me once I walk up the five stairs to the plane. “You will have Wi-Fi on the plane, so you can go ahead and log on.”
“Perfect. Thank you,” I say to her, shrugging off my Burberry jacket and placing it on the seat beside me. Since I’m going straight to work after the plan lands, I dressed for it. I’m wearing tight white pants topped with a lace crocheted button-down beige short-sleeved shirt. I paired it with strappy Jimmy Choo gold high heels. I place the cream-colored Celine purse with my jacket and grab my phone out of my bag.
I fasten my seat belt and finally turn my phone back on. The phone doesn’t stop with the notifications coming in, and I see I have fifteen missed phone calls.
I see that Evan answered me back, and all he said is:
Evan: I’ll speak to you in the morning.
“Really,” I say to myself. “Or not,” I answer him and then check the messages from Zoe.
Zoe: Where the fuck are you?
Zoe: You need to call me back ASAP
I text her.
Me: I’m on the plane. Sorry, my phone was on airplane mode.
Not more than three seconds after I press send does the phone light up in my hands.
“What the fuck?” she hisses. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all night and this morning.”
“Why?” I say and feel the plane moving.
“Um, have you not been on Twitter?” she asks me, and I put her on speakerphone and then go to Twitter. “People are going nuts.”
“Why?” I ask and go on Twitter.
I have over a hundred notification. “What is going on?”
“I’m not sure you caught the photo from last night because you didn’t comment on it and knowing you, you would have been ‘Bye, Felicia.’”
“I saw it, but I just texted him a picture of it,” I tell her.
“Well, the comment is gone, and in its place is a new one. I think he just threw down.” She snickers. I go back to the picture.