Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,50

are just the fucking years spent getting here.

Yeah, I’ll sing through the sting

Because nothing’s worth the time I’ve lost

In the thought

I can’t live without a throne.”

When the song ends, silence echoes through my studio. Only my labored breaths give any hint of the magic that just occurred. I did that? My words? My voice? My vision? The bridge, the chorus, the breakdowns and builds, all of it works together to tell my story in music. My evolution. My metamorphosis into something else. Well, not me—the new artist no one knows.

The girl in the mirror.

Stunned, I pick up my phone and snap a picture of my face. Pulling up the chat with Joel, I send the photo.

This is what I think, I type back, dragging a sleeve across my tear-soaked cheeks.

I listen to the song several more times and work out a schedule with Joel to finish it before finally braving the journey back to reality. Maybe I feel stronger than usual, bolstered by my morning with Oliver and artistic self-discovery. I probably should have read the slew of other messages I’d been ignoring, but couldn’t bring myself to ruin the bliss one second earlier than necessary.

Hadley hovers at the top of the stairs as if she’s been waiting for me, her expression severe and focused.

“It’s bad, huh,” I mutter, brushing past her toward the kitchen. She follows behind me, her laptop tucked under her arm.

When she doesn’t respond, I glance back and see her staring at her phone.

“Crap, your parents are on their way,” she says.

I groan and reach for a glass. “Tell them no.”

Her gaze shoots to mine. “Okay, but have you seen any of it?”

I try to swallow the chill that rushes through me at her grave question. “You mean, the internet gossip about last night? What else is new?”

She looks away, and my stomach twists with nausea. I fill my glass with water and take a long drink to soothe the ache.

“It’s…” she pulls in a deep breath and opens her laptop. “I have a conference call scheduled with Selena and Sam this evening after rehearsal.” She flips the screen around, and my heart stops.

“BACK IN ACTION?” reads the headline on a major gossip page.

“Injured goalie Oliver Levesque’s knee looked just fine as he made the rounds with pop sensation Genevieve Fox and socialite Regina Jeffries at The Six Stone Lounge. Sources say, while he started the evening with Ms. Jeffries, it was Ms. Fox who got cozy and took him home. Not bad for a hockey player who isn’t even on the ice. Does this mean Genevieve finally found a replacement for ex-fiancé Darryn Shields? Or has Levesque found a new game to play while stuck on injured reserve? You can bet we’ll be keeping a close eye on this shocking pairing.”

I stare at the photos for a long time. Grainy shots of Oliver and me rewrite our amazing night together with a bitter filter. We look so happy, so connected and free. It feels sinister now that they’ve stripped us down to blurb fodder. Sprinkled among our photos are images of Oliver and another woman. Whoever this Regina Jeffries is, I presume. She’s pressed against him, her lips at his ear while he appears to be concentrating on what she’s saying. He’s not smiling in any of the photos with her. Maybe one, but it’s hard to tell in the dim lighting. I’ll ask him about her, but I’ve had my words and actions twisted enough to know things are rarely what they seem.

“That’s the kindest of the articles,” Hadley says quietly.

“I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. It’s my first time being linked to anyone since Darryn. What are they saying?”

When she hesitates again, I give her a sharp look. “It’s better if you just tell me, Had. I need to be prepared when I see it for myself. It’s not like I haven’t gotten this stuff before.”

She clears her throat and pulls the laptop back to her. “I know. It’s just… it’s mostly aimed at Oliver not you. Is he used to this?”

Aimed at Oliver? My stomach drops. Why would they target him? I’m the bigger name, the bigger story. Wait, that’s exactly why it’s aimed at him. I make him the better story. I’ve publicly turned a saint into a sinner.

Hadley presents the screen again, and I drag in a heavy breath.

“PLAYER A PLAYER?”

“Must be nice to have time to play the field while your team gets clobbered on the ice. Although supposedly