Chapter 38
ACE
My knee bounces uncontrollably.
Fuck this.
Fuck everything about this.
The words on the paper swim and swoop to leapfrog each other in front of my eyes.
This pristine white sheet has been ruined by me within seconds.
I’ve already crushed the edges beneath clammy palms. All I want to do is scrunch the reporter’s questions into a ball and hurl it at his head.
Better yet, I want to reach across the room and shove it down his preppy Ivy League throat.
Gareth Chumley. Of course, a guy with a name like Chumley looks superior as fuck. As if he’s already made up his mind that I’m just some thick-skulled moron. A neanderthal who can’t do anything except hit tackle bags and charge around a rugby pitch.
He fusses with the camera, testing the microphone attached to my shirt collar, and gestures about something to do with the lens focus.
Of course, there was no warning about this. No preparation. The guy wants to keep it light and informal, when the reality is, there’s a fucking knotted mess of snakes writhing in my stomach.
This dog shelter is a passion of mine. Beyond being a cause that the Wolves formally took on and sponsored, I donate a fuckload of my own personal time and money. This is a place I would do anything and give up any amount of time for. Especially for someone as bighearted as Linda.
Which is why I’m currently gritting my teeth, trying my goddamn hardest to focus on the words that keep jumbling themselves on the page. The text is tiny. The questions are long-winded. The room feels like it’s being baked at a thousand degrees.
I try to do the breathing thing. The deep ins and outs that Finch always makes us do when we come in for a huddle after a try has been scored. The small act of sucking in a deep lungful of oxygen, rather than shallow breaths that leave your limbs going numb.
Except none of it fucking works.
I’m still itching to hurl myself out of this chair and choke the prissy little reporter on his own stupid questions and then get out of here.
Not to mention, she’s here, quietly watching it all.
Linda flits around in the background, beaming like the sun because she’s thrilled at the opportunity to partner a pro athlete’s face with an opportunity to bring in donations. And maybe that’s the only reason I’m still here and not already halfway across town.
I want to be that guy for her.
I want to be the kind of person who can handle this.
I want to be someone who can do more than tackle hard and run the ball across the white chalk.
A voice in the back of my mind pipes up and reminds me that it’s helping Linda and the dogs of Wagging Tails I’m supposed to be concentrating on right now.
Fuck.
I’ve managed to twist the paper until it forms a tube, and now when I try to lay it flat on the table, it starts curling at the edges, making those ant-sized words even more difficult to read.
Jesus. This is a goddamn mess.
My knee rattles against the underside of the table, the one Linda has draped with branding and a logo hanging down across the front. The idiot with the camera and the snotty I’m smarter than you attitude can’t see the way my heel jackhammers beneath the table, thankfully.
“Alright, I think we’re ready to start rolling.
” He turns and gives me a leery smile. This is the type of creep who probably gets off on trolling online from his faceless harvardalum08357 account on a Saturday night.
A Beta who is especially triggered by the presence of an Alpha in a room and clearly likes to pretend a trust fund and a fancy degree will make up for his personality being the human equivalent of a used condom tossed on the floor of a public bathroom.
I fucking hate that she’s standing back watching this all unfold, this goddamn disaster, as I sit here at this table. Any minute now, I expect to hear a noise of disgust and to see her blond hair drifting out of the room.
“How about you read the question out loud, and then you can off-the-cuff answer it. I’ll roll camera the whole time.”
“You want me to ask myself the questions?” I grind out.
His expression is pure smarmy glee. As if he knows that this is likely to be a challenge, and he can’t believe how easy it is to put me in my place. The thick, dumb, illiterate rugby player.
“Think of it like when celebrities have to read out mean tweets about themselves, then react. It’s all part of the process and adds to the footage available. Makes for excellent B-roll content.”
What the fuck. This guy has gotta be shitting me. “This is hardly a comedy roast. We’re here for a charity. You could just ask the questions, as a reporter would usually do in an interview.”
“Ahh, I’m sure that might work in some other contexts, but for this piece, we really have a certain flavor we’re angling for. All for the most important part of getting those donations bumped up, I’m sure you’ll agree.” He rolls his wrist at me to hurry things along.
Of course, I want to do the best for this place. Heat crawls up my nape and damp coats my lower back as I shift my weight. This stupid foldout chair squeals beneath my bulk, and somewhere there’s a clock ticking as all eyes stay glued on me.
“Aaaaand whenever you’re ready. Just start at the top of the page. Try to keep eye contact with the camera, don’t look at me, it’s better for the connection with the viewer. Just think of all those dollars rolling in.”
My jaw flexes. Inhale. Exhale. Imagine the crunch of this prick’s nose cartilage shattering beneath my fist.
All those tiny words decide to go racing around the page faster. I blink a few times and feel my pulse thumping harder and harder. Fuck’s sake, I can’t even get a single word out.
“Just read it back while looking at the camera. Easy.” The asshole picks lint off his polyester blazer and folds his arms with a huff.
“I’ve got a suggestion to improve this interview, if you don’t mind…” A calm, soft voice cuts in. “Grant, is it?” Wren peers at his press badge sticking out of his lapel pocket.
“It’s Gareth. Gareth Chumley,” he grumbles.
“Totally understand the style you’re making an attempt to reach for here, Graham.
” She waves him off, not seeming to care in the slightest that she’s got his name wrong, again.
“But as the social media advisor for Wagging Tails, I feel I need to bring a different perspective—since we’re doing what’s best for the dogs and all. ”
She stands in front of the camera, blocking the sight of me, and tilts her head to one side, looking over his tripod setup.
“Hmm, no, it’s going to be far too heavy on the single subject matter, and you’ve only brought one camera with you, so you’re lacking any diversity in focal points or angles to splice together, which, to be frank, will absolutely flop on social media when it comes to viewer conversion and retention.
” Wren gestures around the room as if there should be cameras positioned in multiple locations, then walks across to pick up an extra folding chair.
What the hell is she up to?
Setting it beside mine, she sits down and bats long eyelashes at the dickhead reporter.
“I’ll do you a favor and ask the questions, since you weren’t prepared with a second camera today.
” Wren plucks the sheets of paper out of my hands before settling herself into a more comfortable position, with legs crossed.
Gareth grumbles something about checking the camera focus to make sure we’re both in the frame.
“Good, you do that. I’ll give you a minute to sort yourself out,” she breezes, then gives a tight-lipped smile.
Stealing a glance her way, I notice she’s pulled her hair back, and those plush lips have a fresh sheen of lip gloss on. As if she quickly did that before leaping in here to join me on camera.
I don’t know what to make of it.
“Alright, you can get on with the questions now.” The guy sounds shitty as hell that she’s stepped in.
“Perfect.” She keeps the paper in one hand and uses the other to straighten out the front of her hoodie before dropping that hand below the table.
Her touch grazes the point where I’m white-knuckling the side of my chair, and in a split second that tips everything else into a place where it doesn’t matter, where absolutely nothing else matters, she carefully hooks her fingers with mine below the table.
I’m almost certain my blood ignites like a track of gasoline under the flick of a match.
“Alright, Atlas Palamo, starting center for the Wolves. First question… how long have you been a volunteer at Wagging Tails, Willow Falls?” Her blue eyes lift from the page. Her tiny fingers squeeze mine, and it’s a seemingly impossible thing to conceive.
This girl is willing to hold my hand through this stupid interview, and it’s like my brain goes from being a five-alarm fire to being doused with water; the choking pall of smoke clears, and I’m able to think clearly for the first time since sitting my ass in this chair.
I turn to the camera and look straight down that lens, and as I open my mouth to speak, her touch is still right there, grounding me, anchoring me.
Wren keeps her hand twined with mine, hidden beneath the table… and I start talking.