“Hey, I’m a huge IceCaps fan, and if this is the way the team wants to bond to keep their winning streak going, then I’m all for it. They can have sex with her all the way to the Stanley Cup finals for all I care, as long as we get there,” a second guy said.

“I don’t know, guys,” the female presenter declared. “Did you see Devan Mayson, eligible bachelor extraordinaire, with a baby strapped to his chest? I think there's more to this than meets the eye.”

“Probably a mystery bag baby,” the first guy chuckled. “Don’t know whose it is until it's out of the womb.”

They all laughed, and I slammed the stereo to mute a little too hard. Goddammit!

I pulled up into the driveway and was out of the driver's side the second I had it in park. I burst through the front door, out of breath. As I moved down the hall, I could hear the television on.

My heart sank.

I stepped into the room, and Nova was there, standing so still she was like a wild animal in the path of a predator. She had Huey clutched to her chest, as if she was protecting him from whatever she was seeing.

Playing on the morning show were pictures of us, flashing through in a reel, while the presenters made jokes about how lucky she was, about Huey’s paternity, and made thinly veiled references to her being a whore.

I jumped over the back of the couch and turned it off. Spinning back around, I looked around at Nova’s pale, shocked face. “Nova…”

She passed me Huey and then turned, fleeing up the stairs like she could run from this shitshow. I wished that were possible for us all.

Chapter Thirty-Four

NOVA

My phone was a constant buzz on the couch, but I didn’t want to look at it. Didn’t want to answer it and talk to people. I’d masochistically Googled the guys’ names after seeing the segment on the morning show, and that article had been the first thing to appear. I could have almost taken that. It was a shock, but it wasn’t totally unexpected. But the hateful comments underneath tore at my insides until I was a bleeding mess.

Puck pussy. I mean, points for alliteration, and it was much better than the other less imaginative slurs people were posting beneath the article—which was now being featured on at least three gossip news sites.

Whore. Slut. Clearly no self-esteem to allow myself to be passed around like the Stanley Cup. Some people were telling me that I should just die. It was worse than awful.

Today, I’d woken up feeling amazing. Now, everything was in a fucking shambles.

Devan had knocked on my door several times, but I didn’t answer. Chloe’s name had flashed across my phone screen, but I ignored that too.