Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83908 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83908 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
On and on and on. Stories from men who met him online and had relationships or friendships with him. At least two other guys from LA, and he’s left a trail of others in cities he’s lived in. Many of them gave him money.
Just like me…
I used to pay for everything.
Malcolm is a con artist.
Malcolm used me.
Malcolm cheated on me.
He was never mistreated.
It was him who mistreated everyone else.
So many things start to make sense. How he doesn’t like social media. Hell, how he pretended he didn’t even understand it. That was all a game, and I fell for it.
I proposed to him.
In front of everyone.
Fuck my life.
Things don’t get better over the next few months. I’ve become a meme, a saying. You Got Hayesed. That’s what they say online when something bad or embarrassing happens to someone. The media calls me for interviews. They dubbed all of Malcolm’s old partners the Jilted Exes’ Club, and apparently, the one dumb enough to propose at a public event is seen as the biggest loser of them all.
CHAPTER ONE
Rylan
January
When I got to the practice facility earlier this morning, the first thing we did was go over video from the game last night. We played Toronto, whose offense is annoyingly fucking good. But I did my job, protecting my goalie and keeping those motherfuckers as far away from the net as I could, and Mads was on point, blocking all but two of their shots. It wasn’t a perfect game, but we pulled out the W, 3–2, and that’s what matters.
“Fuck, I wish we didn’t have ice time today,” Mads says as we make our way to the locker room to get in our gear.
“Can’t hack it?” I joke, though I wouldn’t mind a break. I’m fucking sore as shit from all the hits I took.
“That last puck went between my pads. Hurt like a bitch.” He rubs a hand over a spot on his torso. “My D-man let them slip by.”
“Who? Stevens? Because I know it wasn’t me,” I tease, making Mads laugh. Kason Maddox is my closest friend on the team. He was drafted one year after me. We’ve both been lucky enough to play for LA our whole careers so far. With him being a goalie and me a D-man, we play closely together. Plus, we’re both bi and have similar backgrounds—parents who didn’t have jack shit for money but busted their asses to help us succeed. He’s a little quirky, but then, he’s a fucking goalie and most of them are. Mads is my boy, and I’m thankful as hell I get to play with him.
We hurry into our gear, tape our sticks, then head out to the ice for stretching and drills.
“Short and sweet today, guys. You deserve it after last night,” Coach Warren tells us. He’s a bit of a hard-ass, but he’s also made the Rebels what we are today. We were shit before they hired him, then brought me and Mads on, and now we’re one of the best teams in the league. We haven’t gotten the cup yet, but I can guaran-fucking-tee it’s gonna happen.
Coach only keeps us on the ice for forty-five minutes before he lets us go. We do a little cooldown on the bikes and have a quick session with the trainers, before we’re both dressed—Mads wearing his backward Rebels cap, as usual—and heading out to our vehicles.
“What’s so interesting on your phone?” I ask Mads.
“That poor fucking guy who got humiliated when he proposed at our game is still all over the internet.”
Mads doesn’t always show it, but he’s a big fucking softy. He’s a kickass goalie and a tough motherfucker, but also tears up at commercials and gets emotionally invested in other people’s lives. He watches these queer soap opera–type shows online, and it’s not strange to have him telling me who is fucking whom, who died or who got their heart broken. It’s just how Mads rolls.
“Yeah, it’s fucked up. Do people really have nothing better to do with their time?” I don’t know why the media—and hell, every person with internet access—latched on to this story so completely, but they have.
We’ve gotten wrapped up into it some because it happened at a Rebels game. The organization tried to offer the guy—Hayes, I think his name is—tickets for another game, but he declined. Can’t blame him. If I were him, I’m not sure I would want to go back to the place where that shit went down.
“I can’t imagine such a difficult moment going viral. They’ve even tried to get them in for interviews and shit like that.” I haven’t watched any videos, or interviews. I don’t know if he’s done them or not. I’ve made it a point not to consume any media about the situation out of respect, but I’ve picked up bits and pieces, and apparently the boyfriend has a list of significant others and exes long enough to form his own hockey team.