Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player novel Chapter 93

Chapter 93

TESSA

My head is pounding. Like, heartbeat–in–my–skull kind of pounding.

Hours spent hunched over a computer will do that to you. When the first set of migraines. hit, I grabbed some Tylenol, swallowed it dry, and threw on my reading glasses like a grandma with a grudge.

–

Ana from Legal? Probably curled up in bed, dreaming of spa days and balanced schedules

AKA she’s my polar opposite and has a life to live, probably tucked in bed, asleep by 12:58

AM- so she has no time to respond to my emails.

Meanwhile, I’m still here.

Alone.

Again.

Whatever.

I stretch and let out a yawn. My desk is a disaster–coffee cups, highlighters, Post–its with

half–written thoughts and tomorrow’s to–do list.

1. Make amends with Emilia.
2. Contact her family’s lawyers.
3. Get her family photos copyrighted.

I seriously do not get paid enough, as a best friend and PR manager. Sometimes, it feels like I work ten different jobs at once with absolutely nothing to show for it. Well, except in the Emilia department, she’s the best person in the world when she actually tells me shit.

All the cubicles are dark. Everyone else left hours ago. But me? I’m still clinging to the glow of my screen like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

In a way, it kinda is and that’s sad as hell.

1/3

1. up.

He always comes back.

And I’d let him in. Every time.

God, you’re so pathetic, Tessa.

I pull off my reading glasses and rub at my sore eyes, trying to blink the blur away. My head still hurts, and the Tylenol I took earlier might as well have been candy.

After sitting there for a few more minutes, just kind of… marinating in my feelings, I finally grab my things and start cleaning up my desk. Coffee cups, printouts, sticky notes I’ll never read again — it all goes in the trash. I thought I’d feel better once everything was tidy. Accomplished, maybe. Like I could go home and feel human again.

Nope.

Instead, the silence hits harder. Louder.

I don’t even know what I expected. Maybe someone to say, “Great job, Tessa! You get to go home to your apartment at 1AM, where no one is waiting for you. No Emilia to berate you for coming home late or make soup at past midnight just so you don’t have to eat your detrimental cooking. Just you, your cold leftovers, and the memory of a hockey player who ditched you for some leggy blonde he met at the same gala you got dragged to like a prop.”