Page 37 of The Wildest One

Several seconds passed before she said, “The internet is having a blast, trying to figure out what it is.”

I backed up, but I didn’t take my eyes off him. “What do you mean?”

“The memes have already started.”

I continued to step backward until I reached the bed and held out my hand for her phone. Once it hit my palm, I placed it in front of me, scanning from the TV to her cell, back and forth, so I wouldn’t miss any of Beck. “My God, they’re ruthless. It’s like everyone has to be so perfect. No one is allowed to have a real moment?—”

I cut myself off when I realized what I’d just said.

A real moment.

“And you think I’m a man who only seeks perfection? Shit, I’m far from that, Jolie. Listen to me. We all have real moments. Athletes especially. We’re under a microscope, and some of our most vulnerable experiences are caught on camera and blasted all over the internet.”

As I stared at Beck’s mouth while he was replying to one of the reporters, I recalled our conversation as though it had happened moments ago.

That crumb on his face—whatever it was—had to be a coincidence. He’d taken a quick bite of something to eat before he came out for the press conference and forgot to wipe his mouth.

Like I’d done before rushing into first period that day in ninth grade.

Right?

I blinked several times as Beck got up from his chair, as he and his teammate walked out of the press conference and the commentators filled the feed.

That was when I slowly turned toward Ginger.

Since I was still holding hers, she now had my phone in her hand, scrolling. “Girl, you should see the comments coming in.Some say it’s a piece from his helmet. Some say it’s food. Some say he put his face in the DC goalie’s ass and?—”

“Can I run something by you?”

She put my phone down. “Of course.”

I tossed her phone on the bed to free up my hands and wrapped them around me. “Now, I could be wrong—and I’m sure I am—but I told Beck the story about the barbeque sauce that was on my face in ninth grade and how I was teased endlessly for it. That conversation led to a talk about real moments and vulnerability. He tried to make me feel better by telling me that things like that happened to athletes all the time and how they were caught on camera and would go viral.”

She crossed her arms and smiled. “What are you saying, Jolie? That Beck put a crumb on his face on purpose?”

“I’m wondering if he did, yes. It doesn’t make sense why he would do that, but?—”

“Oh, it makes perfect sense to me.”

Why wouldn’t my heart stop pounding?

Why was it beating so fast that when I voiced, “Why would you say that?” I sounded breathless?

Her smile grew. “It’s just a hunch I have.”

“Explain your hunch.”

“Hmm, where do I start …” She tucked her legs in front of her and rested her hands between them. “Beck’s still hockey rough with his unruly beard and messy hair, which looks messy on purpose, but it’s still messy.”

I slowly filled my lungs and moaned, “Yep.”

“But at the same time, he’s pretty. He’s put together, and for the most part, he’s groomed. He cares how he looks. The suit he had on before tonight’s game was so sharp. Even when he was dripping in sweat after the game, his hair wasn’t standing up in every direction—it was tamed—and his beard was finger-combed. Trust me, that guy wasn’t walking into a room of reporters with something on his face unless he wanted it there.”

I grabbed a bunch of my hair and lifted it off my neck, the room suddenly so hot. “You’re saying he left the ice, stopped somewhere to put that crumb, piece of helmet—whatever—on his face, and went to the press conference? But why?”

She shook her head back and forth, letting out a long breath. “One day, you’ll know your worth. I swear it’s my mission. But we’re so far from being there, it’s not even funny.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “Ginger?—”