Two hours pass, and a significant portion of Bryce’s belongings are boxed and labeled. Nine boxes are stacked in the corner in the entryway, and they mostly consist of shoes and clothes. I’ve set his hockey gear aside, because I’m sure those can be placed in some hall of fame or auctioned off and donated in the near future.
“Who’s Rhett Carson?” Bostyn appears out of nowhere, leaning against the wall in the hallway.
“God, you scared me.” I smack my hand across my chest. “How do you know Rhett?”
“I don’t know Rhett,” she says. “I’m asking who he is because your Facebook status from last night just says, ‘Rhett Carson.’”
“What? No, it doesn’t. Let me see.” I swipe her phone from her hand and bring the screen close. Sure enough, there’s my name and my photo and the words ‘Rhett Carson’ typed next to it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
It has four likes, two loves, and one “LOL” already.
What the hell, people?
I check the names of the likers and immediately realize they’re all Spartans I must have drunkenly added at some point last night. My hands shake and my cheeks burn.
I want to crawl in a hole and never come out.
“I was looking someone up last night,” I say, hands trembling as I undock my phone from the speaker in the kitchen, pull up my account, and search for a way to remove my post. “I must have accidentally typed his name into a status instead of the search bar.”
“Who is he?”
“One of the guys on Bryce’s team.”
“Delete it!” Bostyn says, fanning her hands.
“I’m trying!”
A minute later, it’s finally gone, but the damage has been done.
“I can’t believe I did that,” I say. Our eyes meet, and I cover my mouth in slow motion.
“I can.” Bostyn folds her arms across her chest, her pink lips twisted into a smirk. I’m glad one of us finds this amusing. “You can never talk to those guys ever again.”
“Nope. Never again.”
Four
Ayla
* * *
“Mom, I’ll call you later, okay?” I stand outside the Spartans’ ice rink late Monday morning. It’s been nine days since the funeral now. Bryce’s coach called me earlier today, asking if I could come in at some point to discuss establishing a foundation in his name, and he was shocked speechless when I told him I could come in immediately. I guess I’m supposed to still be in mourning? Over a complete stranger who hated my guts?
“When are you coming home?” she asks, proving once again that she’s the hardest person in the entire world with whom to end a phone call.
“I told you,” I remind her gently, “as soon as everything is straightened out.”
I don’t tell her that New York is kind of nice in the summer, that I spent all day yesterday with Bostyn, and that Bryce’s apartment is too amazing of a place to let sit empty for the next five months.
“But what about your place in LA? You have a lease,” Mom says, as if I need reminding.
“Bryce’s rent is paid through the end of the year, and I’m still making my half of the rent on the condo,” I say. “I told Vivian she could sub-lease my room if she wanted, but I think she likes having a little love nest with Fernando.”
Mom giggles. “Oh, stop. I just hope they’re not touching your things.”
I roll my eyes, laughing through my nose. My mother thrives on creating drama out of thin air, bless her heart. She just can’t help herself. But she means well most of the time.
“Anyway. Busy day today,” I say. “Love you. Call you later?”
I hang up before she has a chance to stall, and I head through the automatic doors at the front of the building.
A directory on my immediate right points me to Coach Harris’ office on the second floor, and on my way to the stairs, I pass a hallway of Spartan mean-mugging portraits in alphabetical order.
Alistair, Ridley
Atwood, Wyatt
Briggs, Brandon
Carson, Rhett.
Oh, god. Rhett.
My cheeks warm when the vivid memory of my Facebook fiasco washes over me all over again. I still can’t believe I did that.
It’s a miracle that I was able to muster up the strength to show my face around the Spartans’ headquarters, truly. I was serious when I told Bostyn I could never come around those guys again.
If only it were that easy.
The sound of trampling footsteps and men’s voices echoes through the stairwell, growing closer, louder. I steal a good look at Rhett’s portrait, studying his chiseled jaw line, dimpled chin, sun-kissed complexion, and piercing blue stare, and I turn to reach for the railing, my eyes still glued on his beautiful face.
I can’t breathe for a second, his image burned into my mind, and then I realize I’m on the ground, the wind knocked from my lungs.
A hand extends as I come to, and I realize in my gawking glory, I must’ve bumped into one of the players as they made their way down the stairs. I place my hand in his, and it’s rough, calloused. Shielding the fluorescent lights from my eyes, I brace myself as he pulls me to standing. Our eyes don’t meet. In fact, he won’t even look at me.
But I know it’s him.
It’s Rhett.
His gaze pierces past me, narrowed at something in the distance. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t apologize or acknowledge me.
And just like that, he’s gone.
“Ayla?” I recognize Shane from the other weekend, though he looks completely different in a white t-shirt and faded green chino shorts. His hair is soft and fluffy, free of product, and he doesn’t smell like the cologne aisle of Macy’s.
“Hey,” I say.
“What’s up?” Shane slides his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. I’m not sure if he’s trying to make conversation or if he’s actually asking me what I’m doing here.
“Just meeting with Coach Harris about a few things.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and glance toward the door once more on the off chance Rhett might be lingering outside, but there’s no trace of him.
“Ah, I see.” His eyes rest on mine. “You doing okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“You still have my number?”
I nod again, holding my breath and waiting for him to bring up the Facebook post.
“Listen, if you ever want to-”
“Ayla?” I turn toward the voice calling my name, and I see Coach Harris standing at the top of the stairs, decked out in a Spartans green tracksuit. It’s amazing that after meeting me once, at Bryce’s funeral, he recognizes me so easily.
“Hi,” I turn away from Shane, quickly whispering an apology, and head toward Harris.
“Thanks for coming,” he says, his expression stuck in shocked mode. The bags under his red-rimmed eyes tell me he’s still struggling with this, and maybe I should be the one comforting him. “I’ve got the conference room all set up.”
He slips his meaty arm around my shoulder like I’m one of the guys, and we climb the remainder of the stairs and turn the corner, stopping at the end of the hall.