Todos los capítulos de My Pathetic Obsession With The Hockey Boy : Capítulo 41 - Capítulo 50

CelesteThe cold glass of the tablet in my hand felt slick with the sweat of my own palm, though the morning air was biting enough to freeze the breath in my throat.Around me, the scattered murmurs of the student body were beginning to shift, the initial shock of Carlson’s public declaration dissolving into low, speculative chatter. They were buying it. The pathetic fools were actually buying the performance. They looked at the way Carlson stood with his hand still interlocked with Cheryl’s, the way his broad shoulders remained squared against the perimeter of the crowd, and they interpreted it as devotion. They saw a modern-day knight protecting his fragile, misunderstood girlfriend from the cruel winds of rumor.It made my stomach turn over with a violent, acidic heat.My teeth ground together so hard my jaw ached, a dull, throbbing pain radiating up through my temples. How could they be so utterly blind? How could anyone look at Cheryl, with her dull, washed-out sweaters, her perp

CelesteI remained pressed against the cold brickwork, the damp chill of the wall seeping straight through the cashmere of my coat and settling into my bones.Inside the greenhouse, the muffled rise and fall of their voices continued, echoing softly under the glass dome. Every single word was a piece of dynamite, settling into the bedrock of the narrative they had spent months constructing. A fake relationship. A calculated cover-up designed to draw eyes away from the team, away from Derek, and away from whatever ugly rot was festering behind the glass of the home rink.For a brief, intoxicating second, a wave of sheer, blinding satisfaction surged through my chest.I had been right. My instincts had not failed me.The quiet, pathetic little nobody had not magically transformed into someone capable of holding Carlson Miller’s heart. She was a tool, a placeholder in a desperate game, and I held the thread that could unravel the entire tapestry. If I brought this to the athletic board,

CelesteThe cold air trapped inside the leather booth felt heavy, smelling faintly of scorched espresso beans and bitter defeat.I stared down at the polished wood of the table, my fingernails pressing into the grain with enough force to leave white impressions against the surface. The realization of what I had lost out there in the greenhouse was still burning a raw, hollow trench through my chest. I had held the master key to their destruction right in the palm of my hand, only to watch it dissolve into nothingness because of a dead battery and a bitter gust of wind."It's pathetic," I muttered, the words slipping out in a sharp, self-loathing hiss. "Ten minutes of absolute perfection, and I walked away with empty hands. If I had checked my screen five minutes earlier, if I had just stayed inside the warm corridor instead of walking out into the frost, we would have had them trapped."Megan stood by the edge of the booth, her coat half-zipped, her expression a mix of lingering irrit

CherylThe fluorescent lights of the small, subterranean editing suite hummed with a low, irritating frequency that seemed to vibrate directly behind my temples.I stared down at the black casing of my primary audio recorder resting on the heavy laminate table, my fingers hovering just above the device like I was afraid it might disintegrate at the touch. The battery compartment was jammed shut, warped at an impossible angle where the plastic had been forced and cracked under deliberate pressure. Next to it, my primary flash drive, the one containing three weeks of unbacked interviews, stat sheets, and transcribed player logs for the upcoming mid-season feature, sat completely unresponsive when plugged into the port, its internal sectors fried by a sudden, violent surge of static electricity.A cold, heavy knot formed in the pit of my stomach, tightening until it felt like lead.This wasn't an accident. Equipment didn't simply warp its own casing while locked inside a secure faculty l

CherylThe heavy oak door of my childhood home felt cold under my knuckles, but the chill inside the front foyer was far worse.I stepped into the house, my boots dragging against the pristine hardwood floor that my mother kept polished to a mirror shine. The familiar scent of lemon wax, dried lavender, and stale tea filled my lungs, but it brought zero comfort. There was no warmth waiting for me here, no safe harbor from the storm that had been tearing my life apart at the seams. Yet, as I stood in the hallway with my hands shaking and my chest burning, a desperate, childish part of me had believed that my own blood would finally listen.I walked into the living room.My father, Marcus, was sitting in his high-backed leather armchair near the unlit fireplace, a copy of the evening financial paper held open in front of his face. My mother, Patricia, sat on the opposite sofa, her thin fingers meticulously smoothing the fabric of a needlepoint cushion in her lap. Neither of us looked up