My fingers fly across the screen: If you’re my man, are you fucking anyone else now you’re home?
Luce must be reading over my shoulder because he scoffs. “Subtle, Jay.”
“Subtlety is for people who are too scared to be direct, and when have you ever known me to be anything but blunt?”
“Point taken.”
Soren doesn’t reply, but he could be on the ice now for a skate before the game.
We head to the arena for soundcheck, which goes smoothly, but the whole time, I’m itching to check Soren’s response.
Once we’re done and we go to Radioactive’s dressing room to wait it out until our stage time, I throw myself in a single armchair while Benji and Freya take the couch.
I put my hand out to Luce, but he refuses to give me my phone.
He and Marty stand, refusing to sit.
“Why can’t I have my phone?” I whine.
“Because you need to get your head in the game. You can’t afford another stage fuckup like in Ottawa. We’re still fielding bad reviews in the media because of that show.”
“That one show. People need to get over it.”
“No, you need to remember your fans made you. They deserve the best show you can give them. You’re already getting a reputation for being a snob by not turning up to the VIP meet and greets.”
“They’re here for Eleven. What’s the point?”
“They’re not all here for Eleven,” Benji says. “I always get asked where you are.”
“Same,” Freya interjects.
“Okay, fine. I’ll go to the meet and greets. Just give me my phone.”
Luce folds his arms across his wide chest.
Marty grunts next to him and fishes my phone out of Luce’s pocket. “He’s trying to keep you from freaking out. Soren hasn’t replied.”
“I’d rather he not reply than to respond with ‘Oh, shit, I wasn’t supposed to fuck the flight attendant on the way home?’”
“He wouldn’t say that,” Freya says.
“Even if he did do it,” Benji adds.
Luce is close enough to slap him across the back of the head for me.
Freya rubs my arm. “Ignore him. Soren left here smitten with you, and it’s been two weeks. Unless he’s a complete jerk, he wouldn’t have had sex with someone else yet.”
“Yet …”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“He’ll reply,” Marty says.
He doesn’t.
And no matter how many times I glance at Luce during the concert, while I sing and dance my lungs out, giving two hundred fucking percent to keep Luce happy, he always shakes his head.
Still no reply.
Maybe his phone died, I try to tell myself. That’d make sense. That would mean he can’t contact me until he gets home from the game.
His game was at seven, and it was a home game against Boston, so … two hours for the game, twenty minutes to shower and get dressed after is being generous, and then going from the rink to his place, though I don’t actually know how far he lives from the arena …
God, I feel like I’m in one of those high school math problems. If a hockey player is fucking someone but covering it up, how long does it take him to travel X miles and plug in his damn phone?
When he hasn’t replied by the time the meet and greet comes along, even though he’d definitely be home by now, I’m not only confused, I’m fucking pissed. Not being able to go back to my hotel room makes me even angrier. I have to stand here and take photos with fans while Harley watches from the other side of the room.
“Twenty more minutes,” I complain to Luce when my ass is grabbed by yet another fan for a photo.
“Would it kill you to smile?”
“I am smiling.”
“No, you’re gritting your teeth. Stop it.”
Another fan approaches so I open my mouth wide like a clown and give Luce a thumbs-up.
He tries to keep a stoic and stern face because, let’s face it, dealing with me is like dealing with a toddler. If you laugh at my antics, I will never respect you again.
His lips quirk, and I know I have him.
Then his face falls completely when he catches sight of someone else approaching.
The fan screams her head off, and I don’t even have to turn to know who’s there.
“Mind if I join you for this photo?”
Fucking. Harley. Valentine.
I grit my teeth harder and smile for a photo with them, making sure the fan stays between us.
Harley’s arm brushes against mine behind the fan’s back, and I’m surprised at how much I want it off me. Not because I wish I could have more like I would’ve a few months ago, but because I’ve reached a place where I know he doesn’t deserve me. Any part of me.
He doesn’t get to keep messing with my head and my heart, confusing me and making me want what he can’t give me.