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“You handled it amazingly, by the way. I was this close”—I pinch my thumb and forefinger together—“to telling him to fuck off.” “I was giving him the finger in my mind.” “Imagine if Asher Dalton was up there with us?” “Oh, he’d for sure tell the reporter to eat shit and die.”
Everyone starts behaving themselves again, playing clean, fixed on that next goal, and I get a peaceful minute or two until Connor flattens Ezra into the boards right beside me. “Harder, Daddy,” Ezra taunts, and I facepalm. This is going to be a long game.
I feel fucking horrible, actually. It kind of sucks to be told that everyone you love is miserable because of you.”
Poor Connor
