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“You eat horribly, you know,” she comments.
“No, I don’t.” I pour two cups of coffee, sliding one across the table to her. I watch as she puts cream and two granulated sugars into it before stirring, mentally memorizing the way she prepares it. I add cream to my own.
“You do,” she insists. “You eat takeout every single night. And not healthy takeout. I don’t think I’ve seen a single vegetable in your place yet, except the ones I bought.”
She’s right, but I don’t admit it. Instead, I shove a huge bite of pancakes into my mouth.
“I’m a growing boy. I need calories.” I swipe an errant drop of syrup off the side of my lip with my tongue.
“Not empty calories. I thought athletes were supposed to eat healthy to perform better.”
I smirk. “I perform just fine, Doe. Anytime you want to find that out for yourself, you know where to find me.”
“Yuck.” She frowns. “Hard pass. And … Doe? Why are you calling me that?”
“When we first met in college,” I explain, “you were all doe-eyed and innocent. You still are.”
“I am not,” she protests, a soft flush making her look young and fresh. “And … wait … I thought you said you didn’t remember me from back then.”
I lift a sausage patty and dip it in the syrup, eating most of it in one bite. “I lied.” My words are muffled by the food in my mouth.
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” she snarks.
“I remember you at that party, telling me off like I was the biggest asshole on the planet.”
“Still are,” she adds. “First impressions are pretty accurate.” Using a knife, she smears grape jelly on a piece of toast and bites into the corner. She watches me as she chews. “We need to talk about last night.”
“What about it?” I ask, sipping the coffee.
The food and the caffeine are already easing my headache, but I think this conversation with Emerson might bring it back.
She tilts her head and gives me a look, telling me she isn’t amused. I motion for her to continue.
“You can’t disappear on me like that.”
“I don’t like being told what to do, Emerson.”
“Point made, Sam. But I’m not telling you what to do. I’m trying to help you. Help your career. And we need to come to some sort of truce. I’m not the enemy here.” She pulls out her phone and scrolls, handing it over after a minute.
I flip through picture after picture at the club with various women all over me. It’s on some national gossip site that used to be a magazine, but is now online. This happens constantly these days. I spend the night with a woman and wake to find a selfie of me asleep in bed with a sheet barely covering my junk and a random girl smiling next to me. They get notoriety for sleeping with a professional hockey player. And I get a bad rep, screwed in the realm of public opinion, known as a fuckboy. I hate social media.
“It’s a different world these days, Sam. Everything you do will be online within minutes. And then it’s there forever.”
“I know that,” I say irritably. “I’m not an idiot, Em. I’ve been functioning just fine all on my own before you ever came along.”
She arches her delicate brow. “Really? Then, why am I here? Your reputation isn’t exactly great right now. And I know about Anaheim.”
I snort. “You know about it, huh? Where did you hear about it? The web? Madison?”
She doesn’t answer, but I can see it in her expression. The answer is both.
I rise from my seat and start packing the rest of my stuff in my bags. My movements are angry and rough.
“See, this is the problem. You think you know what happened because you read about it online. But the truth is, the only two people who know what really happened were me and her. No one else was there. Not you and not Madison and definitely not the rest of the world. So, don’t tell me you’ve got me all figured out.” I stop and look her directly in the eye. “I don’t need saving, Emerson.”
“I’m not trying to save you, Sam. But I am trying to help you.”
“I don’t want your fucking help!” I slam my bag on the ground.
