But the date stamp on the article makes it look like yesterday.
"Barnes spotted at The Drake with mystery blonde."
No wonder Elena's been silent all day. She thinks I'm cheating on her. The thought makes me physically ill.
I call her immediately. Straight to voicemail.
"Elena, call me back. That photo is ancient—at least a year old. Please call me." My voice sounds desperate even to my own ears.
I hang up and type out a text, my fingers moving frantically across the screen.
"That was taken at least a year ago. The press is just making shit up."
I hit send and stare at the message, watching those three dots appear and disappear as she starts to type something, then stops. Then nothing.
I call again. Voicemail again.
I slam my phone down on the counter, hard enough that I'm surprised the screen doesn't crack. This is exactly what I was afraid of—my past coming back to haunt us, my reputation undermining everything we're trying to build.
How do I prove to her that the photo's old? I try to remember exactly when it was taken. Last September? October? Long before I was traded back to the Blades, that's for sure.
I grab my laptop and start searching for the original photo. If I can find it with the correct date, I can show her this is bullshit. But the only versions I find are recent reposts—all with yesterday's date, all with that same stupid caption about me being spotted with a "mystery blonde."
My phone stays silent. I try Elena again—text, then call. Nothing.
My hands are shaking now. A well-known sensation spreads through me—that same uncomfortable warmth I've felt so many times before. Not anger this time, but something worse. Fear. And beneath it, the whisper of old insecurities.
This is why people leave. This is why you'll always end up alone.
I push the thoughts away. No. I'm not that guy anymore. Elena and I have something real. She'll listen. She has to.
I grab my keys and wallet. If she won't answer my calls or texts, I'll go find her. Make her listen. Make her understand that this absolutely did not happen yesterday.
As I head for the door, my phone buzzes again. I snatch it up.
But it's not Elena. It's my agent.
"Saw The Drake photo making rounds again. Should I issue a statement clarifying the date?"
Even he knows it's old news. I text back a quick affirmative, then slide the phone into my pocket.
Elena has to believe me. She has to. Because if she doesn't—if she can't trust me through something as stupid as a recycledphoto—then what chance do we have against the real challenges that will come our way?
I lock the door behind me, determination replacing the fear. I won't lose her over this. Not when we've fought so hard to find our way back to each other.
Not when I'm finally becoming someone worthy of her trust.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing outside her front door, knocking for the third time.
"Elena, please. Just let me explain." I press my forehead against the door, lowering my voice. "Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
Nothing.
"I'm not leaving," I say, sliding down to sit with my back against her door. "I'll stay here all night if I have to."
I pull out my phone, staring at that damned photo again. Melissa looks exactly as I remember her—calculating, camera-ready, with that practiced smile that came off soulless. We'd gone out maybe three times before I realized she was more interested in being seen with an NHL player than in me as a person. Just another in a long line of shallow connections that defined my life before Elena.
Before I became someone I actually like.
