17. Vayda #2
I freeze in the center of the living room. Car doors slam one after another. Three, maybe four vehicles pull up onto the curb in front of the house. The crunch of tires rolling over the gravel shoulder echoes through the walls.
I step over to the front window. Peeking through the slit in the sheer curtains, my stomach drops.
A white news van sits parked halfway on my grass. Two black SUVs idle right behind it. A crowd of people spills out onto the street, lugging bulky cameras, boom mics, and lighting rigs. At least fifteen of them move as a group toward my front yard.
"Oh, shit." The words slip out in a breathless rush as I watch a guy with a massive DSLR camera stomp through the front garden bed.
Another reporter shoves past him, tracking dirt and gravel over the new concrete driveway.
They trash the property to get a shot.
A woman holding a microphone stomps up the front steps.
Her heels click against the concrete. The rest of the swarm follows her, crowding onto the front porch until the space is packed.
I catch movement at the side of the house.
A few photographers jog toward the backyard, their cameras swinging as they head for the new ramp and the patio.
Cali lets out a terrified hiss. The cat darts out from her spot near the window, her fur puffed up and her ears pinned flat to her skull. She scrambles across the hardwood floor, her claws slipping on the varnish before she dives under the sofa.
A fist pounds against the front door. The wood shakes in the frame.
"Vayda! Vayda Moore! Open the door!" A man's voice booms from the porch.
The pounding continues. Camera flashes strobe through the sheer curtains, lighting up the dim living room with bursts of white light.
"Is it true the Reapers are living here?" A woman's voice pierces through the glass.
"Are you taking advantage of their money to pay for your Alpha’s medical bills?" The demands continue as they shove their camera lenses against the front windows, trying to get a look inside.
"How does it feel to replace Hale Langdon with three guys ten years younger than you?" Another voice cuts over the commotion.
"Does Brendan know his mate is a puck bunny?" The cruelty of the shouted questions knocks the wind out of me.
They hurl this garbage right through the glass while Brendan sits just feet away.
Another round of pounding hits the front door.
"Are you worried management is going to force them to drop you?" The demands continue through the door.
"They need to be focused on the playoffs, Vayda! Are you going to ruin their careers?" The flashes keep strobing.
The front porch is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers demanding answers, demanding a piece of my private tragedy to sell for clicks. They trample over the safe space I spent four years building.
Brendan lets out a distressed whine from his wheelchair. The loud banging and the flashing lights catch his attention. He slaps his hands against the armrests, his eyes wide with confusion and fear as the shouts echo through the front hallway.
"Vayda! Come out and give us a statement!" The chanting starts outside.
I snap out of the freeze when Brendan lets out another distressed sound. I sprint to the front window. My hands shake as I yank the blackout curtains closed. The metal rings scrape against the rod. I move to the next window and pull the fabric tight, cutting off the strobe of the camera flashes.
I grab the remote and nudge the volume up just enough to mask the shouting outside. I reach for the noise-canceling headphones in the side pocket of the chair and slide them over his ears. He flinches at the touch, but his shoulders drop as the quiet settles over him.
"I'm right here, Bren." I drop to my knees on the hardwood floor and grip Brendan's thigh, rubbing my thumb over the fabric of his sweatpants in a slow rhythm.
His muscles stay tense.
I feel the weight of my phone in my pocket. I’d grabbed it from the kitchen floor hours ago, right after Brendan finished his lunch. I toggled the Do Not Disturb settings. Just Wally, Kel, Simon, and Kristy have a pass to reach me. The rest of the world rings on silent.
This is what I knew would happen. I told them my life was messy. I told them I came with too much baggage. But they bulldozed their way in. They made me feel safe. They made me believe I could belong to Alphas again.
And now I'm ruining them.
The sites are tearing them apart. Management will step in and penalize them for the bad press. I'm dragging down the three brightest stars in Canval.
The phone vibrates against my hip.
I pull it out. Wally's name flashes on the screen next to the picture of him. I swipe to answer and press the phone to my ear.
"Wally."
"Vayda, breathe. Are you okay? Kristy texted us as soon as she saw the leak. Kel is losing his mind in the locker room right now." Wally's voice crackles with anxiety.
"I've been better." I grip the phone tight, my voice low.
"I know you have." Wally sighs, the sound raspy through the speaker. "Listen. The front office is already tracing the leak. Just a select few knew about us. We will find out who talked. Our PR team is on the phone with the site demanding a retraction."
"They're here, Wally." I squeeze Brendan's leg.
"Who? What do you mean they're here?" Wally's voice drops, his tone turning cold.
"The reporters. There are at least fifteen of them on the porch. They parked on the grass. They're banging on the windows and shouting things about Hale and Brendan. I had to close the curtains." My chest heaves as I speak.
A low snarl rips through the speaker. A loud crash follows, like a metal trash can hitting a wall. "Lock the deadbolts. Make sure the back door is secure. We are leaving the arena right now. We are coming to stand between you and those vultures."
"No! Stay there!" I stand up, pacing the narrow strip of space between the sofa and the wall.
"We are coming. We are staying by your side." Wally's voice sounds hard and final through the speaker.
"Stay away from the house, Wally! If you pull up right now, they'll swarm the car. They'll get pictures. It'll just prove everything the article said." My voice rises with panic.
"We focus on the bond, Vayda. The League wants compatibility blood tests. Once the results come back, management has to back us. It legitimizes everything. It proves this is our bond." Wally's words come fast and firm.
"But it matters to me! You guys have careers. You have massive contracts. I'm a widow with a disabled Alpha. I'm the burden they say I am." I swipe tears from my face, my breath catching in my throat.
"Stop it. Don't let them put those words in your head." Wally's voice drops to a quiet rasp through the speaker.
"It's the truth! I told you this would happen. I told you I'd ruin your lives. Stay away, Wally. Stay at the arena. Just leave us alone before I drag you down." I hit the end button, drop the phone onto the sofa, and sink back to the floor. I bury my face in my hands.
The low, aggressive rumble of Kel's diesel engine cuts through the chanting outside.
The crowd shifts. The shouting turns from demands for my attention to a frenzy of overlapping questions.
"Kel! Kel, over here!"
"Simon, is it true?"
Car doors slam out in the driveway.
I crawl toward the window, keeping my head low. I reach up and peel back the tiniest corner of the blackout curtain.
Kel’s black truck is angled across the driveway, blocking the reporters' SUVs. The doors fly open. Kel, Wally, and Simon push through the crowd. They shove past the cameras and the microphones. Kel shoulder-checks a cameraman, sending the guy stumbling into the bushes.
My heart hammers. They’re going to get fined.
The pounding on the door starts again. Two fast knocks, one slow. Our signal.
I scramble to my feet, my legs feeling like jelly. I reach for the deadbolt. My fingers fumble with the cold metal.
"Vayda, open up!" Kel’s voice booms through the wood.
I turn the lock. The door flies open as I grab the handle.
The three of them spill into the entryway, bringing the hot summer air and the frantic noise of the street with them. Kel slams the door shut and twists the bolt into place. He leans his back against the wood, his chest heaving, his face twisted into a mask of rage.
Wally and Simon move toward the living room. Simon drops to his knees by Brendan’s chair, checking the fit of the headphones. Wally stands in the center of the room, his eyes scanning the dark space until they land on me.
He crosses the floor in silence and hauls me into his arms. I breathe in his scent of bergamot and sweat, and the tears spill over.
Outside, the chanting gets louder. They’re calling for the star players and their widow to come outside.
"We're here. We are staying right here." Wally presses his face into my hair, holding me tight.
The house feels smaller now. The locked door keeps the crowd on the porch, but we're trapped inside this cage together.