**Chapter 5: Unraveled Hearts** The moment I hang up the phone, my heart races like a drum in a marching band. Dean’s words echoed in my mind: “I want to fuck you again.” A part of me feels flattered—hell, who wouldn’t be? I mean, I’ve always had a knack for making even the most mundane experiences in bed feel like a grand performance. But, let’s be real. No way am I sleeping with him again—especially not after wallowing in self-recrimination all day, feeling like Hester Prynne herself, branded by shame. If Hester was judged by those Puritans, I’m tearing myself apart with a far harsher critic—me. I can’t help but feel stained by what happened last night. But, let’s face it: if someone was defiled here, it was Dean. I seduced him, tied him up, and took him for a ride that would put any amusement park to shame. The irony isn’t lost on me. I groan, tossing my phone onto the couch like it’s some hazardous object. I’m a twenty-two-year-old woman—and maybe I’m not a slut. Maybe I’m just someone who dabbled in a little no-strings fun for once. Yet the problem is I crave the strings. I’m not wired for casual encounters; sex, for me, is intertwined with romance—the kind filled with cozy snuggles, late-night confessions, and inside jokes that linger in the air like sweet perfume. I’m a card-carrying member of Team Boyfriend, and after last night, I can honestly declare that Team One-Night-Stand truly sucks. The sex was phenomenal, but the weight of shame that followed? Not worth it. With a sigh, I pick up the script I had abandoned earlier, trying to focus on something other than the chaos of my mind. The student-written play marks my final performance at Briar, a role I’m thrilled about—not because I’m one of the two leading ladies, but because getting on stage again has been a dream I’ve craved since my theater debut in Boston this summer. It’s a welcome distraction from the storm brewing in my head. But now? I’m standing at a crossroad in my career, and the pressure is mounting. Back when college started, I had instructed my agent to focus solely on summer projects for me, wanting to avoid any temptations that may come with a significant role while I was still in school. Now that graduation is looming, the rules are changing. With pilot season around the corner, Ira has bombarded me with scripts—comedic sitcoms, dramedies, and romantic comedies that would have sent me into a frenzy just a year ago. I’ve always pictured myself as a rom-com queen, the next Sandra Bullock or Kate Hudson. That dream got a shake-up this summer, though, when I landed a role in a grim, heart-wrenching play directed by the legendary Brett Cavanaugh. To my shock, I got the part of the troubled, drug-addicted sister—and the experience was transformative. And now, an avalanche of offers for serious roles has crashed down on me. Why this sudden pull towards the stage? Sure, Hollywood promises more money, fame, and accolades, but why can’t I stop dreaming about theater? Lost in my contemplation, I’m jolted awake by my phone ringing. A glance at the screen sends a jolt of anxiety through me—it’s Sean, my ex-boyfriend. My heart races. I really shouldn’t pick up, but the urge is overpowering. “Are you okay?” His voice is frantic, each word laced with worry. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” I reassure him, though his concern stabs at my chest. “I came by yesterday after class, but you weren’t home,” he continues. “I texted you all night.” “I know,” I reply, swallowing hard. “I stayed at a friend’s. I—I told you I didn’t want to see you.” Sean’s voice breaks. “I was hoping you’d change your mind. Baby, I miss you. I know it’s only been a couple of days, but it feels like forever.” My heart shatters a little more with each word. “I messed up, okay? I see that now. I shouldn’t have given you that ultimatum, and I definitely shouldn’t have insulted your career. You’re talented, more than I ever realized. I was an ass—” “Sean—” “You’re the most important person in my life. Just give me another chance.” The weight of his words smothers me. The guilt surges; he deserves honesty, yet how do I admit what I’ve done? The truth spills out like poison. “I slept with someone last night.” The silence is deafening, stretching across the line like a vast chasm. Each second feels like a lifetime. “Did you hear me?” “Yeah… I heard you.” His voice is barely a whisper now. Pain claws at my insides, and memories flood back. I picture the first time I met Sean—his floppy brown hair, twinkling hazel eyes, and that adorable smile. Back then, everything felt so simple, so beautifully uncomplicated. And now? Now I’m confessing to infidelity while our love lies shattered at my feet. “Who?” His voice is harsh, a desperate edge clawing through. “It doesn’t matter who it was,” I rush to say. “I won’t be seeing him again. It was…” I pause, collecting myself. “A stupid mistake.” He breathes heavily on the other end. “Thanks for telling me.” And just like that, the phone goes silent. I stare at the wall, my heart racing and my mind spinning in a whirlwind of regret. Should I have kept quiet? I could have spared him this anguish—perhaps I should have. But honesty has always been my creed. A groan escapes my lips as agony swells in my chest like an iron vice. Rather than dwell on the painful revelation, I reach for my iPod, sliding the earbuds in and cranking up Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball.” The lyrics resonate deeply, wrapping around me like a dark cloak. Wrecked. --- **Dean** “Look at him, G. He’s adorable when he sleeps.” “Like an angel.” “A really slutty angel.” “Wait—do angels even get laid? I bet heaven orgasms are a million times better.” “Uh-doy. That’s exactly where rainbows come from! Every rainbow means an angel’s having a great time.” “Exactly! It’s like a bell ringing gives an angel wings.” I groggily crack one eye open to the absurd conversation flowing through my room. “I can hear you two, you know.” “Oh good, you’re awake,” Logan says, leaning against the doorframe. “What time is it?” I grumble, rubbing my eyes. “How can I possibly sleep with you fucking morons talking about angels getting off?” Garrett snickers, his laughter muffled by the early morning air. “Coach called. He’s been trying your phone, wants you at the arena in an hour.” “Why?” My anxiety spikes. “Assuming you got wasted, he probably wants to chew you out.” “How would he even know?” I mutter. “Dude, Coach is a spy master. His sources are endless.” Shit. I can’t afford a lecture. “Is Hannah still here?” I ask Garrett as I search for clothes. “Nah, she went home.” My heart skips a beat at the mention of her name. “Good,” I mutter, forcing down the wave of thoughts crashing in. The last thing I need right now is to remember what happened between us. “You didn’t do anything stupid while she was here, did you?” Garrett’s tone carries an edge of suspicion. I stop, stalling. “I was a perfect gentleman.” “Right.” Logan rolls his eyes before shuffling away. In the bathroom, I catch sight of the monstrous purple hickey on my neck, practically glowing in the light. Had Garrett seen it? But why would he care? I could easily brush it off as anyone’s. But the reality is—I fucking want Allie again. She hung up on me, leaving me with nothing but memories of her breathless praise ringing in my mind. And I’m not about to sulk over it. That’s not who I am. But damn if I don’t feel driven to chase after her, especially now. Thirty minutes later, I swipe my student ID at the arena entrance, trying to shake off the tension that clings to me. The hallway is eerily quiet; my sneakers squeak against the polished floor. I approach Coach’s office and knock—he gruffly calls me in. “Hey, Coach. You wanted to see me—” I freeze at the sight of Frank O’Shea, my former coach and a ghost from my past. “Di Laurentis,” he greets, his gaze as cold as ice. “Coach O’Shea.” I nod, forcing down the resentment bubbling up inside of me. “Frank’s our new defensive coordinator,” Coach Jensen announces. “You two need to clear the air before practice.” My stomach churns. Great, just what I need. I’d rather be on the ice than face this man alone. “Are we going to have a problem?” O’Shea’s voice drips with disdain. “You tell me, sir.” I return, masking the simmering anger beneath my calm exterior. “Let’s leave the past behind us. I’m willing to start fresh if you can.” “Oh, how generous,” I scoff internally. “What’s your idea of respect?” O’Shea’s eyes narrow. He continues, “I expect you to listen on the ice. No insubordination. I won’t tolerate any distractions. Understood?” I nod, swallowing the bitterness rising in my throat. “Next, you’re moving to the second line with Brodowski.” “What?” I can’t contain my shock. “Jensen’s trusted my judgment. You’ll be with Brodowski—it’s final.” “Coach already tried this in the preseason and it was a disaster.” “And you won’t be with Kelvin this time,” O’Shea snaps back. I can feel the anger escalating. He’s punishing me, and he knows it. “And the second thing,” I state coldly, “because you mentioned two things?” He crosses his arms, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ll be volunteering with the Hastings Hurricanes.” “What?” “The middle school team. You’re stepping in for a player who fell ill. Two practices a week, game day Friday.” I choke back a groan. I don’t want to deal with middle schoolers. But I also can’t afford to object, knowing it would only fuel his desire to torment me further. “Sounds fun,” I force out, resisting the urge to punch his cocky face. “Great to see you’ve matured, Di Laurentis,” he shoots back, a cruel smile dancing on his lips. Because he’ll never forgive me for my past with his daughter. What a lovely way to start my day.