Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“Don’t say it then.” I shot to my feet, restless and agitated. “Just…let me figure this out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t know anything, but I know I don’t want to lose you.”
Walker stood then and opened his arms.
I swallowed hard, and on an exhale, I crushed him against my chest in a rough embrace. We didn’t move for a long moment, and we didn’t speak. I was grateful for the silence until I realized it was too heavy, too final.
The walls were up. He was shutting me out.
I stepped aside and wiped a tear from his cheek. He wanted me to leave before I made promises I didn’t know how to keep. Too many people had let Walker down. How was I any different?
I was a bi athlete with prospects, but I hadn’t done shit yet. What had I proved? Nothing.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe this thing between us had run its course, and the good-bye had come sooner than we thought it would. Maybe we’d forgotten the ending was inevitable. Maybe it was always going to feel like a gut punch and I was always going to be the one standing on his doorstep, repeating, “I don’t want to lose you.”
That didn’t explain the bone-deep sorrow.
And it didn’t explain why it felt as if I’d left a piece of myself behind.
CHAPTER 25
TY
The weird thing about your life falling apart was that no one seemed to notice. The quad was bustling with students in varying modes of stress—hanging out in small groups, smoking and laughing, or racing to classes as if the fate of the world depended on their attendance. Me? I moved like a ghost with my chin down, cutting through the sludgy bits of grass peeking from the thin layer of snow still covering the lawn.
I wasn’t avoiding anyone. I just didn’t want to talk. I’d done enough of that over the weekend.
The Ketchum Clomsky-Walker Woodrow floodgates had opened last Saturday morning.
A popular sports podcaster had done a story featuring Internet darling, Walker Woodrow and his connection to hockey legend Ketchum Clomsky on his regular weekly morning show. The LA Times, New York Times, and Florida Times had run similar stories with a “where is he now?” angle. None of them mentioned his father’s battle with early onset dementia or their relationship, so…not so bad.
Another publication joined the bandwagon Monday morning and focused on his famous mother. Less than twenty-four hours later, Walker Woodrow, Deanna Woodrow, Smithton, and Ketchum Clomsky were trending, but Walker was the main event. Memes sprang up about his hair, his Union Jack-topped Mini Cooper, Mabel, and his abiding affection for plain M&M’s and Coffee Cave’s double espresso lattes.
I didn’t check, but I’d bet he’d gained another few hundred thousand followers and a fuckton of subscribers to his channel. It was strange to know that he wasn’t enjoying a single second of the attention. I knew he was worried about his family and…me.
As far as I could tell, Walker hadn’t engaged with the press at all. Don’t quote me, though. I hadn’t checked. I’d kept busy with practice, classes…and I’d had an away game Tuesday. In between, I’d texted or called to check in and see how he was doing. Walker didn’t respond and since the nature of the media attention was relatively favorable, I wondered if he’d overreacted.
Yes, it was a lot, but it seemed to be good for his business.
Until an Internet sleuth dug up the Valentine Day story that outed Jett and his boyfriend. And someone else suggested Walker was a miserable hypocrite because wasn’t he dating a hockey player, too? Yep, my name hit the Internet, and the pendulum began to swing in a negative direction.
“Walker’s been seen with Ty Czerniak, a hottie who plays for the Smithton Bears and…” Blah, blah, blah.
“You see what I was fucking talking about now?” Toby stormed on the phone. “Gotta know when to ride the coattails and when to let go. Don’t sweat this, kid. If anyone asks, you’re single, you love Smithton, but you’re looking forward to being a Jackal next season. End of story.”
No one asked.
Okay, that wasn’t true. Vincento asked.
“Where is the redheaded boy? I haven’t seen him lately. Bring him in,” the old man chided the evening I stopped in to pick up my pizza order.
Oh, and Shar at Bear Depot. “My heart goes out to him. I adore Walker. He’s a good soul with a sweet heart. All that media nonsense about him leaking news about his father for publicity is ridiculous. He needs his friends right now. I’m glad he has you.”
I tripled my effort to get in touch. I called, texted, and even stopped by his house. If he was there, he didn’t answer the door.
Thursday afternoon, he posted a video.
“Hi, there. I’m usually filming from a fun locale in town, but have you noticed how strange this week has been? I’m going to answer a few questions that have been posted on my site and give my own statement. Yes, my father is Ketchum Clomsky. I didn’t leak that information. It’s public record. As for my relationship with him…I saw him during the holidays, so…there you have it. The Valentine incident two years ago devastated me. I addressed it at the time and formally apologized to all parties who, by the way, are living their happily ever after together. By the way, I sat with them at a hockey game last month. We’re friends. Last but not least…I’m single. Stop harassing the hunky Bears. None of them are my boyfriend. But I do have a cat. Say hello, Mabel.” Walker picked up the Himalayan beauty and held her to the camera. “That’s what’s new with me in Smithton. I’ll be back with more interesting content next week. I’m learning yoga. OMG. Sheila from Tranquil Fitness has promised to turn me into a pretzel. Be sure to tune in!”