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“Why not?”
“You’re already gaining traction as his girlfriend and getting hate messages despite not acknowledging any rumors.”
“What’s the big deal? I can handle hateful messages.”
“Hockey is his life. And you might be able to handle those messages—although I wish you didn’t have to—but I don’t know that Michael can.”
“He’s stronger than you think.”
I sighed and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I know he is. But the scrutiny is a lot to take.”
I wasn’t sure if it was my only hesitation, but I didn’t want to mess up his image. The public loved him. He was adored by old and young alike. They all wanted to be Mac Savage or be with Mac Savage. He had an image to uphold, and I couldn’t shake Julie’s words.
At home, we could be ourselves and moving in together had been the best decision.
But at work, the last couple of weeks had been rough. I had managed to weasel my way out of every game, citing reasons that would have been absolutely ridiculous if either of them had questioned me.
But they didn’t question anything because they trusted me.
In reality? I hated being at the games. I couldn’t fathom sitting in the stands if he got hurt while I looked on helplessly.
I wasn’t that worried about people with pitchforks coming after us anymore, but I was worried about losing him. I didn’t realize it until I realized how much I love him.
It was an overwhelming love that consumed me, and I hated his job was so high risk.
But I was dumb and couldn’t tell Em any of that. She would convince me to work past it, and I wasn’t sure I was ready.
“If you don’t think I should, I won’t.” Em slipped out of Mac’s jersey and hung it back up. She chose a bright pink shirt instead and smoothed it over her breasts as she checked her reflection.
“Pink. He’ll like that.” I smiled at her in the mirror and wrapped my arms around her.
And in some way, I felt like I was keeping both of them safe.
It wasn’t rational.
But love never was.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Emily
“Oof. He’s not doing well.” I flinched and leaned against Sebastian. “I’ve never seen him off his game this bad.”
I lowered my phone, not willing to record Mac’s missed shot, or the way he reacted after missing the shot. His mask obscured his face, but I could still make out the frustration twisting his lips.
When he skated off the ice, I smiled at him, but it didn’t feel like enough. We hadn’t talked before the game and we wouldn’t be able to really talk until we were home. None of it was enough.
“I wish we could do more,” I said, fighting the urge to hold Bash’s hand.
Getting to see Mac in his element as I recorded all the guys on game night was my favorite job perk. But tonight, none of it felt right.
I was standing next to one of my boyfriends while we watched our other boyfriend crumble. And we couldn’t comfort each other, or him.
Bash stood silently next to me as I fretted. I wanted him to react. To say or do something to make it better. He always knew what to do, but when I looked up at him for some sort of guidance, his eyes were locked on the bench.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?”
