Eight
Porter
“Heard your girl was a slut.”
The game had barely started, and already this guy was getting on my last fucking nerve. I ground my molars together, not ready to give Brown the satisfaction he was looking for. I kept my eyes ahead of me, waiting for the puck to drop.
Was that honestly the best he had? A sly remark about my girl? That was what I chirped about in middle school. Girls, moms…
I shook my head, my eyes still on the center. It was too early in the game for me to start throwing punches. We didn’t exactly have beef with Florida, so dropping gloves this quickly with no significant hits or scoring wouldn’t exactly earn me big points with my coach, not when I just earned my spot back on the first line.
It was all about timing.
“Heard she spread her legs for her father,” Brown continued, a telltale smirk in his voice.
Snap.
Just like that.
I wasn’t entirely sure how it happened. One moment I couldn’t give two shits, and the next, I had Brown on the ice, my gloves were who the fuck knew where, and my fist was landing in his face again and again and again, as my other hand pressed into his neck.
He didn’t fight back, he didn’t block my blows.
No, the fucker laughed. His mouth and nose bloodied as he laughed at his own fucking joke.
I was pulled off of him, a zebra on either side of me, holding my arms. I wrestled one free, pointing a steady finger at the dumbass who had the audacity to spew about a situation he knew nothing about.
“You don’t know shit,” I sneered.
***
I managed to avoid my family for the last hour.
The game ended thirty minutes ago, and I was holed up in my bedroom once again. Nico was out with the team. We ended up winning.
I’d been pulled from the game, which fucking sucked, because I needed something to keep my mind off Asher. But now, that fucker Brown’s words echoing in my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
About her unsure at seventeen.
Laughing at eighteen.
Laying with me at nineteen.
Her fears, her secrets, her goals, her aspirations. How far she’d come, only for it all to be knocked down to the fucking ground.
The texts from well-meaning family members became calls, which became FaceTime requests. Eventually, even my laptop was lighting up with dual FaceTime and Skype messages, but still, I avoided them all. I didn’t care to hear their opinions. I didn’t need their scolding or concern.
There was one number that I kept hoping would come through, but she was still ignoring me, still pushing me away.
It killed me.
It killed me to know that some asshole, some shitty situation, took the light from Asher’s eyes and drove her away from me.
In the end, it didn’t matter that she pushed, that she avoided, that she ignored me. I still wanted to be her rock. I wanted her to feel she could find someone to trust, and that that someone could be me.
To drown out the noise coming from every-fucking-where, I turned on the TV. The channel was set to NHL Live and the two hosts were talking about some animated graphic that went viral in the matter of moments.
I sat back and sighed, needing the distraction.
Until they showed the graphic.
It was one of those gif images that fans turned into memes, and it was me being pulled away, pointing at Brown. My “You don’t know shit” was certainly well enunciated, as each word was more than clear to see as a viewer.
“Fuck.” I closed my eyes tight.
Avery, in her agent hat, was going to have a field day with this.
It wouldn’t be long until her number started joining the masses.
“What do you think this was about?” the one host, Eddie, was asking.
“Well, Eddie, the Prescotts have had quite the last few weeks, so I’m willing to bet it has something to do with that. And then the rumors about Porter Prescott’s fiancée and what happened to her during the incident involving Avery Prescott, one can only imag—”
I couldn’t listen to any more of this shit.
What the fuck did they all know? Sure, most of the allegations about what happened during that time were true, but not a damn thing had been confirmed.
Unless…
If Ryan leaked about their past, I’d fucking kill him. I didn’t care if he was with Myke, I didn’t care if Asher forgave him; he didn’t need to go spreading that shit.
I picked up my phone to call Myke when my computer went at it again, the annoying ring of an incoming call on Skype filling the now silent living area.
“God fucking dammit,” I said with a groan, standing up from my couch to move into the kitchen, where my laptop was sitting on the counter. My body was sore, but I was free of any bruising because the fucker Brown didn’t fight back.
“Hey, Mom,” I managed to say more cordially than I was feeling, opening up her call. I couldn’t avoid my mother, no matter how hard I tried.
“Porter.” My name was said on such a sad fucking note, I would have thought she was disappointed in me. But I could see every other facet of her sadness in her eyes. “What happened?”
So like my mom. Never mind the fact that she could see it with her own eyes, and could certainly read my lips if she wanted to, but she was asking me.
“He was talking shit about Asher.” I lifted my brows, daring her to come up with something to shoot my words down. “She may not want anything to do with me right now, but I am not going to listen to that.”
I couldn’t listen to it.
My head, my heart, my fucking soul couldn’t listen to it.
“I held her while she broke down. I have watched that strong, beautiful woman crumble and become someone I don’t recognize. I will not listen to some ignorant asshole talk about something he knows shit about.”
My mom rubbed at her eyes. Hell, I made her cry.
“Mom, don’t cry.”
“My heart breaks for her, and it aches for you, Porter.”
I had nothing to say, so I pursed my lips and nodded, dropping my eyes to the keyboard of my laptop.
“She’ll come around, Porter. I have to believe it.”
I lifted my eyes and gave a sad smile.
I had to believe it too.