Page 9

NINE

lauren

After a long day of back-to-back meetings at the Crushers office, all I want is a hot shower, my silky pajamas, and to lose myself in an episode of HGTV. I microwave some leftover lo mein, flop onto the couch, and take exactly one bite before my phone dings on the coffee table.

Olivia

Why didn’t you tell me about the new guy?

Me

What are you talking about?

Olivia

The guy you were on a date with at the coffee shop. Aren’t you the one on social media all the time?

Clearly, my sister still has no clue what I actually do for a living.

She thinks I spend all day picking Instagram filters and writing clever captions.

And I don’t post about myself—because nobody’s out there reposting stories about Lauren Williamson.

I’m just the woman behind the curtain, pulling off the smoke and mirrors so someone else can take the spotlight.

Olivia

Haven’t you seen the account for @crushers_unofficial? It’s a secret fan account with pictures of the guys and you’re on it.

I frown, confused, and search for the handle. My stomach drops when I see it: a photo of me and Tate, taken at the coffee shop where we met so I could bribe him with cinnamon rolls. Someone snapped a picture right as I leaned across the table and touched his arm. We look cozy. Too cozy.

I have no idea who took it, but the account is called Crushers Unofficial—Candid Shots of Crushers Players in the Wild. Apparently, someone local made it their part-time hobby to stalk our guys with a smartphone around Sully’s Beach.

This is exactly how players get outed for bad behavior. One blurry photo and a thousand assumptions about what was actually happening.

I scroll past a harmless picture of Brax and Jaz shopping at Target. She’s holding up a onesie in the baby aisle with the caption: Baby bump spotted!

Jaz’s belly is well past bump territory, but she handles it all with the grace of a saint. Fans routinely rub her stomach like it’s a lucky charm, and she goes along with it.

I scroll down and there’s our selfie from the beach—Tate’s arm draped casually over my shoulder, his dimples on full display. From this angle, it doesn’t just look like we’re close.

It looks like we’re together.

I open the comments. That’s mistake number one.

carolinahockeyfan14

Who is this guy? He’s so cute.

crushers_unofficial

That’s Tate Foster, defenseman for the Crushers. He’s the quiet one.

puckbunny_22

That’s the PR girl.

hockeyfan86

Wait—is she dating a player??

No. Nope. Absolutely not. But the comments keep coming.

HockeyChick28

Honestly, I ship it.

sportsromantic

Please let this be a hockey romance.

iceicebaby

I bet they just came from her place. Look at his smile.

I slap my phone face-down on the couch. That’s definitely not the PR I was hoping for. My career is going up in flames over a shared motorcycle ride and a smile. And I haven’t even released the official motorcycle pictures yet, which means this unofficial photo is spoiling Tate’s big PR moment.

I consider replying, even requesting they take it down, but if I say something, I’ll look defensive. And that will only add fuel to the fire.

friend4ever86

If she breaks up with him and Tate needs a girlfriend, I volunteer!

blackbelt312

After those comments to the commissioner’s wife, the dude’s definitely not getting his contract renewed. He needs all the PR help he can get.

james_doglover

He’s a good player. Doesn’t deserve all the hate. Know him through the animal shelter. He’s the real deal.

He tags Tate in the comments. My stomach plummets. Tate doesn’t even have any public social media accounts. His personal profile is locked, and he’s resisted every attempt I’ve made to get him to create a public account.

I can already picture him deciding to “clear things up” by correcting everyone in this thread. Except he wouldn’t just correct them, he’d launch into a speech about “spreading misinformation and lies” which wouldn’t be helpful for his reputation.

I shoot off a text to Tate, even though it’s late. He should hear it from me first.

Me

Someone took pictures of us at the coffee shop and on the bike. Don’t worry, it’ll blow over. Probably. If it doesn’t, for the love, please don’t add fuel to the fire.

Tate

Decided to sneak a few pictures by me, didn’t you? Couldn’t wait to show off my natural charm in public.

I laugh. At least he’s not freaking out about this.

Me

It’s from a handle called @crushers_unofficial. I’m trying to find out who owns it before they catch Rourke doing…well, anything.

Tate

So, Rourke being Rourke?

Me

Exactly.

Tate

At least they caught my good side.

Me

Do you even have a bad side?

Tate

Depends on who you ask. But clearly, you make me look better.

I glance back at the picture. Even not smiling at the coffee shop, Tate looks handsome. But with those dimples? Even more so.

Tate

You know who else makes me look better? This girl…

For a second, I brace myself, convinced he’s sending me a picture of some gorgeous mystery woman, but when the photo loads, my heart does a cartwheel.

It’s Tate. Holding a golden retriever puppy.

If I had a photo like this for the PR campaign, I wouldn’t even need a caption. It tells the perfect story. No spin required.

I’m still grinning at my screen like an idiot when my sister sends a message.

Olivia

Are you going to keep me waiting all night? You looked pretty cozy with him. And, of course, Abby is all ears about it.

Me

Our cousin?

Olivia

Do you have a minute?

I call immediately, if only to distract myself from the picture Tate sent.

I know my sister is going to have a million questions, but once I explain he’s my PR project, she’ll quickly lose interest. My job isn’t nearly as interesting as gossiping over my love life.

The problem is, I’ve been in a dry spell ever since Bart broke up with me almost a year ago, soon after the reunion .

“What’s up?” I ask as Olivia picks up.

“Abby’s bringing a guest to the family reunion,” she says, trying not to wake Kaylie or Camden.

I settle my plate of lo mein across my lap. “Granny’s going to be thrilled. Maybe it’ll take the spotlight off me, for once.”

She’s always pushing us to bring dates so they can “meet the family”—AKA endure an intense grilling from the relatives. She thinks it’ll make them feel welcome. It usually makes them run.

“I don’t know how Jake survived his first reunion,” Olivia says.

In the background, I hear Jake yell, “Anxiety meds. That’s how.”

I laugh. “Granny did interrogate him like he was applying for government clearance. And Aunt Karen basically forced him into the canoe race. Honestly, I don’t know how any guy survives the Williamson Family Olympics.”

“Exactly. Which is why?—”

“What?” I ask, suspicious now. My sister is never out of words. She’s usually like me that way.

“Well, Abby’s guest…he’s been to the reunion before.”

I freeze, noodles dangling mid-air from my chopsticks. “Wait. Who?”

“Don’t be mad, but she put his name down on the RSVP form.”

“Liv, just tell me.”

“Her ‘plus-one’ is…” She pauses. “Bart.”

The chopsticks I’m holding clatter onto my plate.

“Not Bart Baldwin,” I say, my voice flat. “My ex?”

“Yeah,” Olivia says. “That Bart.”

I stare at the wall, trying to process.

The ultra-competitive ex-football player I brought to the last reunion. The one who sulked every time he lost a game, acted like a martyr when I couldn’t drop everything for him, and dumped me right before Mom died—after picking a fight about how I “don’t make room for relationships.”

That Bart.

And this wasn’t even the first time Bart had broken my heart. He also stood me up at prom in high school—right after I wrote a glowing article about him for the school paper.

Same guy. Same pattern. A quarterback with a killer smile and a talent for making girls feel like they’re the problem.

And yet, I foolishly gave him a second chance. I don’t know, maybe I thought I was different. Maybe I thought he was.

We reconnected when we both joined the same gym, and he asked me out, saying he owed me an apology for what happened at prom.

He was thoughtful on those first few dates, even sweet in a way that made me second-guess what I remembered about him.

But that was before the reunion, before everything unraveled.

That’s when I realized Bart hadn’t changed at all.

What can I say? Optimism is just denial with better PR.

“I don’t get it,” I whisper. “I didn’t even know they were close.”

“They weren’t,” Olivia says. “But according to Aunt Tammy, they reconnected about ten months ago.”

“Ten months?” I ask, thinking through the math. “That was when Mom died.”

My sister’s eyes flick away. “They reconnected at Mom’s funeral.”

“Is this a joke? Bart picked up a new girlfriend at my own mother’s funeral?”

She doesn’t respond, and I press my lips together to keep from saying something I’ll regret. Maybe Abby just didn’t think it through. Or maybe she did. I honestly don’t know.

“I’m not saying Abby meant to stir anything up,” Olivia adds. “But I know this is complicated .”

That’s an understatement.

Because no matter how over Bart I am, the last thing I want to deal with this summer is him.

“But why?” I say, staring at the wall, my appetite suddenly gone. “He said our family reunion was like a weirdo convention and that he’d rather stay in his parents’ basement playing video games.”

“I don’t know, but I didn’t want you to be blindsided,” Olivia says.

“Well, that decides it,” I say, setting my plate down on the coffee table. “I’m not going to the reunion.”

“Lauren,” she gasps. “You have to come. You can’t leave me alone with Granny and all the aunts!”

“Liv, they all love you. They adore Jake and the kids. They don’t pepper you with questions like they do me.”

“Well, Dad needs us there.”

Oh, great. The Dad card.

“That’s the other reason I don’t want to go. Too many memories.” Mom only lived eight more weeks after our last reunion. Everything there will remind me of her—which is exactly why I can’t go alone.

“Please? I need you there,” she pleads quietly. “I can’t run this without you and Mom.”

When I don’t immediately answer, she adds, “It’s Dad’s first reunion without her.”

I spin the ring on my finger, torn between helping my family and protecting the heart I’ve been trying to piece back together since Mom’s death.

When Olivia agreed to take over the reunion, I was relieved. Grateful, even. I couldn’t even look at the sign-up form without feeling like my chest might split wide open.

But I made a promise—to keep the tradition going, to be the glue when everyone else drifted.

“Family is one of the only things that matters in the end, Lauren,” Mom had said before she died. It was the kind of moment you don’t forget. Because when everything’s stripped away, you start to see what really matters.

But that was before I knew about Bart and Abby. Before I realized grief doesn’t follow a tidy timeline with a beginning, middle, and end. It just sits there, waiting to ambush you when you least expect it.

And now, the last thing I want is to show up and act like I’m fine.

“But you have the kids and Jake,” I say, “while I have just me.”

“That’s why I was hoping the guy in the picture…” Her voice fades before I realize what she means. She wasn’t upset at me for not telling her about the picture. She was hopeful. She wanted me to have good news, something that would take our minds off missing Mom.

That’s when the idea forms in my mind like a tiny sparkly gem. Tate wouldn’t have to come to the reunion. He wouldn’t even have to know.

I could just show everyone the pictures of us and let them assume, just like how it happened on social media without me saying a word.

That’s all it took for my sister to believe it was true.

“Are you dating him?” she asks, trying to hide the fragile hope in her words. She wants this for me. They all do.

Then I remember the first rule of PR: A well-told story can change everything.

And the story everyone wants to hear—the story that will solve everything—is Tate.

The lie slips off my tongue too easily. “Guess what, Liv? I have news.”