Page 94 of Playing Dirty
I'm stationed at a wrought-iron table on the terrace at Solstice, nursing a coffee while I wait for Celeste to return with her iPad so we can review the architectural renovation plans. The morning air carries a soft, floral scent, and by all rights, it should be a beautiful day, yet I feel positively sick.
Less than a week ago I was tucked into a secret suite, watching Cillian knock Seattle out of the playoffs and win the Western Conference. I flew home the next morning with spa lotion on my hands and a smile I couldn't explain to anyone.
The Stanley Cup Final. The thing he's chased his entire life, four wins away, however many games it takes to collect them. And this morning, the internet doesn't want to talk about any of it. It wants to talk about me.
My phone is in my hand, and like a morbid compulsion I can't seem to break, I find myself scrolling through the endless stream of comments on the leak.
She's the reason he got suspended in the first place and now she's dating him. Knew she was trouble the second I saw her!
She's not even that hot, honestly. He could do so much better than a local sommelier.
Total puck-bunny gold digger who thinks she can bag a star. Well, that arrogant wine snob can go straight to hell.
What is everyone talking about? She's gorgeous and they look genuinely happy together!
She probably isn't even a fan, just a fame whore who wants him for the clout.
She's on the committee for the animal shelter fundraiser next month, so maybe she's actually a good person?
Don't worry guys, he'll cheat on her and send her back to the cellar where she belongs. She deserves it for being such a social climber.
I swallow hard at that last one, and shove down the part of my brain that's whispering about the no-athletes rule, about all the reasons this was supposed to be off-limits in the first place. It's a defensive reflex, a ghost of a past betrayal. Cillian would never do that.
Just like you thought your ex-husband never would?
"Hey!" Celeste's voice cuts through the spiral as she sits down with her coffee and iPad. "You promised you were going to stop looking at the social media feedback."
“It's all just so weird, I just can't look away.” I stare at my phone like it's a ticking bomb. "Why are people so vicious? What is wrong with everyone? I would never write something so cruel about another person."
Celeste sighs, her expression softening. "Well, that's because you're a good person and a lot of people are unhinged. Give someone a keyboard and an anonymous handle and they turn psychotic. But none of their opinions matter. Right?"
I nod slowly and shove the phone deep into my pocket, trying to ignore the frantic pulse in my chest.
Cillian and I discussed the leak yesterday after he got back from practice, and though we knew the truth would eventually surface, the suddenness was a shock. I'd hoped to remain in ourprivate bubble just a while longer, insulated from the outside world.
This sudden transition to public scrutiny and the venomous vitriol of sports fans is overwhelming, especially since my only previous brush with fame was a local paper mention for a science fair win back when I was twelve. This isdefinitelynot that.
Not to mention, the estate is sliding into wedding season, white tents mushrooming on the lawn every weekend, which means there are now two hundred strangers per Saturday who might recognize me from the internet.
I scan the few people out here—a couple of guests eating on the far terrace, a waiter named Shelby polishing glasses, and José tending to the roses. One of the guests glances my way for a second, and paranoia begins to take root.
"It's just," I say, my voice dropping to a whisper, "I feel like everyone is staring. Like they can see the headlines etched into my forehead."
“Everyone isnotstaring.” She reaches across the table to pat my hand. "You're just in your head because of the notifications. What did Cillian's camp say?"
I exhale a shaky breath. "They're releasing a formal PR statement today. Confirming we're seeing each other and requesting privacy. Cillian fought them to add a line about how he won't tolerate the harassment directed at me."
She nods approvingly, her gold hoops catching the early sunlight. "That's good. Heshouldbe protective."
I give a small, noncommittal shrug, though the familiar, jittery hum of my anxiety is already vibrating through my system.
"I guess. I just hope it doesn't backfire and make the fans hate him even more."
"Something tells me he's not worried about that," Celeste says with a smile. "I think he just wants you to feel safe."
Being with him is one of the only things thatdoesmake me feel that way. Talking it out in his apartment last night made the mounting disaster feel manageable. His steady, unruffled presence has a way of acting like an anchor for my frayed nerves. He's one of the rare people who just handles things, who takes something off my plate instead of adding to it.
But being back at the Estate, exposed to the whispers and the sidelong glances, has my confidence crumbling. Without Cillian here to act as a shield, I feel the familiar pull of a spiral beginning to take hold, and I’m suddenly desperate to be back in his orbit.
