Page 187 of Ice Me Out

I hit post, set my phone face down on the nightstand, and pulled my girl a little closer.

The world would lose its mind tomorrow, but whatever happened, we’d face it together.

Epilogue

Vera

The campus felt eerie the moment I set foot on it. It was quiet—much too quiet for a Monday morning. The clouds were dark and uglier than usual, and the only thing missing was a flock of circling crows.

My paranoia reached an all-time high by the time I reached the library, but I had an assignment due tomorrow that required my undivided attention. I’d already put it off longer than I should have, and unless I planned on pulling an all-nighter, I needed to buckle down and finish it. Whatever was happening outside my little academic bubble would have to wait. I’d worked too damn hard to get this far, and I wasn’t about to let a bunch of strangers on the internet distract me from the one thing I’d come here to accomplish.

My phone vibrated non-stop at the bottom of my tote bag—something that had been happening constantly since Hart posted that video of us. The internet sleuths found me in less than six hours, and I woke up the next morning with a possessed phone.

By the time I woke up Sunday morning, I’d gained 27,850 new IG followers, received 1,812 message requests, and had been tagged in more than 3,000 posts.

Apparently, dating Hart Myers was breaking news, and a conversation with my boyfriend before posting us would’ve been lovely.

Heads up, Sugar. Your face will be plastered all over the internet tomorrow and bitches will be leaving hate comments on all your pictures!

My face had appeared on sports podcasts, hockey fan pages, celebrity gossip accounts, and a handful of entertainment blogs that had absolutely no business knowing my name. One podcast had dedicated an entire twenty-minute segment to analyzing our relationship, complete with a discussion about our age difference and whether I was a distraction to Hart’s career.

They could suck my dick about that distraction bullshit. The man had scored twice in his last game, but sure, let’s blame me for whatever imaginary problems his team was having.

Another account had compiled a slideshow of every public photograph they could find of me, including pictures from high school that I was fairly certain I’d deleted years ago.

Worse than all that? My family group chat had completely lost its damn mind.

There were 198 unread messages, most of them screenshots, memes, and Kandace boasting that she knew about Hart first. Some idiot even changed the group chat picture to a screenshot of Hart and me trying to stretch melted marshmallows between two Rice Krispies treats.

Then Bo entered the chat.

Bo: Bring that young man home for Christmas.

I could say no. I could invent a lie. I could tell him Hart couldn’t make it because he was visiting family, but knowing Bo, he’d declare “the more, the merrier.” Telling Bo was not an option. He’d literally have us abducted from our beds in the middle of the night, and by morning, we’d be sitting at the dining room table eating festive pancakes and wearing Christmas sweaters.

I told him I’d see what I could do, and that went as great as you thought it would.

I had 39 missed calls from numbers I didn’t recognize, including several with unknown caller IDs. A few of them left voicemails; one claimed to be a reporter for a sports publication, and another wanted to know whether I’d be interested in an exclusive interview about my relationship with Hart. One woman with a whole lot of audacity introduced herself as a talent manager and offered to help me capitalize on my sudden popularity.

By Sunday afternoon, I’d silenced notifications from every social media app, turned on the setting that sent unknown callers straight to voicemail, and seriously considered throwing my phone into the harbor.

And as much as I wanted to disappear until the internet found somebody else to obsess over, I had classes to attend, assignments to finish, and a degree that wouldn’t earn itself.

I slipped into an empty study cubby near the back of the library and pulled my phone from my tote bag, intending to set it to Do Not Disturb for the next few hours, but another notification appeared before I could reach my settings.

Luke: So you will date a hockey player? Lmao. Guess I should’ve known. Those veteran contracts and endorsement deals can be enticing. Funny how you weren’t interested in dating a hockey player before and you needed to focus on school. But hey, everybody’s got a price, right?

I stared at my screen and wondered who the hell he thought he was talking to because, for as intelligent as he was, the motherfucker still couldn’t comprehend. I never said no to hockey players; I said no to rookie hockey players.

And what really pissed me off was that Luke genuinely believed the only thing standing between us and a happily ever after was his tax bracket. Because, baby, no. Hart could’ve been unemployed and selling oranges on the side of the highway, and Luke still wouldn’t have stood a chance.

I started typing a response, then stopped and deleted it. There was no point in explaining to a grown man that my lack of romantic interest wasn’t a financial negotiation.

Instead, I blocked him, switched my phone to Do Not Disturb, dropped it into my bag, put on my headphones, and opened my laptop.

For the next forty minutes, I made decent progress on my assignment. I’d found three additional sources, finished organizing my research notes, and was halfway through a paragraph when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

Three girls stood behind me, all wearing Summit University gear. The one closest to me clutched her phone to her chest, looking far too excited for someone interrupting a stranger in the library.