Chapter 2
TWO
KENNEDY
THE DEVIL MAY WORK HARD, BUT I WORKED HARDER.
Post-game interviews were about to kick off, and the rush I got every time I stepped into the media room flowed through my veins like lightning, quick and crackling with anticipation.
In here, I wasn’t Kenny, the borderline homeless thirty-two-year-old woman who broke off a three-year engagement.
I was Kennedy Jones, Senior PR Specialist, who had—or, well…
pretended to have—her shit together. The woman who was doing everything in her power to show her worth.
Because my boss was retiring at the end of the season, and that meant the spot was up for grabs.
Since Brad had been working for the organization for over thirty years, the owners had left it up to him to decide who would take over and be the new head of the department.
I showed my interest in the position, of course, because it had been my dream ever since I could remember.
And that’s why, when the Anderson situation happened, Brad called me into his office and said, “Show me what you got.”
I’d never been so excited in my life. This was my moment. Even if my personal life was pure chaos, I wasn’t going to let it mess with my career. This was the one thing I could actually control.
Still, impostor syndrome tried its best to creep in, to paralyze me.
As a woman in sports, I often questioned whether I was doing good enough or working hard enough.
After everything, would I get the credit I deserved when the time came?
People were going to have strong opinions when they inevitably found out I was actively pursuing the PR director role.
But I wasn’t going to let the uncertainty of things and people’s opinions bring me down.
The pressure society had placed on women wasn’t going to go away overnight, but I’d fight every day of my life to make it easier for future generations to come. Change took time. I knew that. I also knew I needed to brace for what was to come. I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of this.
“Heard you’re pursuing the director position,” Matt Smith, the other Senior PR specialist for the Strikers, said as he stood next to me.
“What are you going to do? Flirt your way right to the top?” His tone was condescending, with a hint of pride.
He sure as hell was patting himself on the back for that one.
I wish I could say I was surprised by this reaction, but this was a regular day in the life of a woman working in a male-dominated field.
Don’t let people fool you into believing positions such as public relations and marketing in this industry were easier for women to work in.
It never mattered what positions we held; the opinions were one in the same.
It didn’t help that Matt and I didn’t get along.
He was the type of guy who tried to act all buddy-like with someone, only to turn around and stab them in the back with a smile etched on his face.
If there was one thing I hated the most, it was hypocrisy.
He knew I saw him for who he really was, and he did not like that one bit.
He’d also been bitter when I got promoted to a senior position a year after I started working for the Strikers and has had it out for me ever since.
“Interesting comment. Do you offer this level of professional critique to the men, too, or am I just lucky?” My voice was high-pitched—sarcasm on full swing.
“Women like you don’t belong in positions like that, and we both know it.”
It took everything in me not to roll my eyes.
“Keep the hits coming, Matty. I’m assembling a bingo card of outdated gender stereotypes.
Is this the part where you tell me how heels affect women’s leadership skills?
” I asked, crossing my arms while tapping my four-inch heels against the tiles with a sardonic smile.
He ground his teeth and shot me a menacing glare that was supposed to intimidate me, but it only managed to make me laugh.
The devil may work hard, but I worked harder.
I’d been told many things throughout my life.
That I was too much of a bitch.
Too eager and desperate to climb the corporate ladder.
Too uptight for my own good.
You name it—I’d probably heard it.
Would I have preferred to be left alone and to my own devices? Yes.
But people like him helped me develop the thickest of skins in this messed-up, misogynistic world.
While I knew being the bigger person and rising above the jabs was the proper—and better—approach, there was something so satisfying about staring a mediocre man dead in the eyes and matching his small-dick energy.
“Always a treat talking to you,” I said with an exaggerated wink before turning around.
The room quieted as the coaches from both teams strode into the room with their star center forwards.
Anderson’s left eye was beginning to shut, and the bruises on his knuckles were more visible, too.
My eyes landed on Holt, and I instinctively cringed at the sight of him.
The beating he got was something to be concerned about.
Both of his eyes were swollen, as well as his nose, and it seemed they had to give him a few stitches on his bottom lip.
Both teams needed to do some serious damage control.
Unrelenting nerves flowed through me as Holt took a seat.
He was the kind of player who was adored by the media.
All he needed to do was flash his boyish smile and the crowd would eat it up.
But Jack Holt was a loose cannon in the making, especially after provoking Anderson tonight.
Not that I had a leg to stand on; it wasn’t like Anderson was any better.
One of his favorite things to do was be sassy with reporters every chance he got.
To his credit, they deserved it most of the time.
Reporters loved talking to these players like they weren’t actual human beings.
To many, players were only stats. It was the way the business unfortunately functioned.
The cameras started rolling, and one of the reporters quickly directed the first question to Jack Holt. “Rough game tonight for the Jaguars, Holt. But we’re wondering, as the newly appointed captain, how can people trust you’ll be able to lead the team to a win after what transpired tonight?”
The menacing laugh Holt barked made my shoulders tense. “The team chose me for a reason. My ability to lead us to a win has nothing to do with petty fights.” He shrugged as he leaned back on his chair. “And you forget I wasn’t the one who started it. We all know his reputation.”
Anderson grazed his teeth with his tongue, trying to keep his smirk in check.
I shot him a sharp look with a quick shake of my head. He needed to keep it together. It was obvious Holt was trying to get to him with any cheap shots he could think of.
The reporter aimed the next question at Anderson. “What happened tonight, man?”
He relaxed on his chair with a shrug. “This is hockey, fighting happens.”
Okay. Not the worst answer. I could work with this.
The reporter nodded, but I didn’t miss the evil glint in his eyes. “Yeah, but you’ve been doing good for these past three years. People thought you had finally settled with the Strikers, and now tonight, you lost it.”
Holt snorted a mocking laugh. “What else is new? We all know his favorite pastime is ruining his father’s amazing legacy.”
Anderson’s jaw ticked as his eyes flickered with emotion. Irritation, maybe?
Vulnerability.
That couldn’t be it. The media had always talked about how different he was from his father.
It was a constant topic in the sports world.
Why would that have bothered him at a time like this?
Still, the temperature in my body dropped as chills ran down my spine.
There was a crucial puzzle piece I was missing, and I knew it had become my job to find out what it was.
The room fell into complete silence at Holt’s comment. Anderson’s nostrils flared, and I waved my hands as I tried to catch his attention. But it was no use. His eyes were unfocused, almost like he had lost himself inside his head.
“I mean, who’s surprised? He has been causing issues since he started playing professionally.
We all know he thinks he’s the king of the ice.
” Holt kept sputtering bullshit, and I wished I could have grabbed a mic and hit him in the head with it repeatedly.
He was such a fucking asshole and a professional shit-talker.
Definitely missed his true life calling.
After a few beats of silence so charged you could cut the tension with a knife, the reporter prompted, “Anderson, any comments?”
His expression remained enigmatic, but his gaze was lost on another planet. He casually grabbed the mic and stood without a word. My heart stammered, and I unintentionally held my breath, bracing for impact.
Holt smirked knowingly and rose from his chair, too. “Aw, shucks, did I hit a nerve?”
Anderson was impossibly tall and easily towered over Holt’s frame, and Holt wasn’t a small guy by any means. But Anderson was over 240 pounds of pure, raw muscle. I had seen him without a shirt more times than I could count, so I knew what lay underneath all those layers.
He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and a plaid gray suit that on any other man would have looked horrible, but he rocked it.
It hugged his broad, strong shoulders and arms and his stone-muscled thighs perfectly.
His black hair was soft and perfectly styled, a rare but beautiful contrast to his intense blue-gray eyes and pale skin.
His nose was a bit crooked with the number of hits he’d received over the years, and his jaw was strong and chiseled.
Countless freckles dusted his cheeks, nose, and forehead, giving him this boyish, innocent look.
That was until he opened his mouth and his cocky personality made an appearance.
His eyes found mine, and a flicker of regret passed through them. In that moment, right before he opened his mouth, I knew the organization was about to spiral into chaos because he couldn’t keep his temper in check.
“If any of you are expecting me to apologize for what happened tonight, that will not be happening.” His eyes zeroed in on Holt, and a smug grin spread across his lips as he stepped even closer.
“And Holt?” He threw out a humorless laugh that made every muscle in my body tense.
“Let’s make one thing straight—I don’t have to believe anything.
I know I’m the king of the ice. When I step on it, it’s mine—always has been, and always will be.
And don’t you ever forget it.” His voice was rough, with an unmistakable angry edge.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
It was worse than I could have ever imagined. There was cocky, and then there was…this.
Holt let out a long, low whistle. “Damn, no wonder your sister—”
He couldn’t finish his sentence, because Anderson threw a solid punch to his already swollen nose.
Holt began to fall onto his back, but Anderson was quick to grab him by the collar to continue his assault.
The room became a total zoo as both coaches tried to pull them apart.
Their attempts were futile as both players fell over the tables.
Every photographer started taking pictures as reporters fired off questions, because if there was one thing about them that was certain, they loved the drama.
The coaches were finally able to pull the men apart, and before they could all leave the room, Anderson shouted, “Watch your back on the ice next time, because I’m going to fucking kill you.
” His eyes were manic and a few darker shades of blue as he threw the words at Holt with venom.
I’d never seen Anderson so distraught. Pure, raw, unrelenting anger practically flowed out of him in heat waves, suffocating the room.
“Looking forward to it, dick,” Holt said as he flipped Anderson off, then his coach pushed him out the door and they were finally out of sight.
“Enough!” Coach Sloane shouted. “Let’s go, now.” He pushed Anderson to the backroom exit that led to our offices.
“Get everyone out of here,” I said to one of our media interns through gritted teeth. She quickly nodded and got to work.
With the throbbing pain in my chest tightening and my breathing becoming choppier, I quickened my steps toward the same exit Coach Sloane and Anderson used to escape.
The room was still loud as reporters started to rapid-fire questions my way.
“What does the Strikers GM think about Anderson’s attitude?”
“How can we be sure Anderson will keep his head straight during this season?”
I took a sharp turn to address the room. The onslaught of questions died down, and they all stared at me expectantly. I didn’t know if my chest was going to be able to handle it, but it didn’t matter. This was part of my job.
There’s nothing else you can do except for damage control. Take a breather, Kennedy. You got this.
“There will be no comments at this time. Thank you.”
Questions started firing at a rapid pace again, but I turned around and made a quick escape.
“What does this mean for the team?” Was the last question I heard as I shut the door with more force than necessary. I was desperate for the thick piece of wood to drown out the chaos on the other side of the room.
I shut my eyes and took a few deep inhales, but it was impossible to breathe.
The only thing grounding me in the moment was the quiet taps of my heels as I strode toward my office. I needed someplace quiet to think. To plan. To calm myself down before I had to face Anderson again.
And to deal with the inevitable.
I knew it was too late to stop the asthma attack that was starting to form in the center of my chest, but I always tried my best. The inhaler made my mouth dry and caused bad breath, so I used it as a last resort.
In total honesty—and kind of a trauma-dumping moment—it also made me feel…weak. Like there was something fundamentally wrong with me. The thought itself was insane, because this was a condition I was born with and something I had no power over, but I hated things that were out of my control.
With slumped shoulders and a small, resigned sigh, I entered my office, found my purse, and grabbed my trusty inhaler.
I brought it to my mouth and took one puff.
The pressure in my chest started to ease slightly after a minute.
So, I kept doing puffs every forty-five to sixty seconds until, by the fourth puff, my chest finally felt completely light.
I sat on my desk and shut my eyes as I tilted my head backward with a long, tired sigh.
If those questions were any indication of the narrative the media was about to push, I had my work cut out for me.