27. Gloves Off
Chapter twenty-seven
Gloves Off
Lauren follows in silence when I head for the conference room without stopping for a snack. She slides into the seat next to me at the back of the room, away from the players filling the rows on the other side. In the corner of my eye, I see Jonas waving us over.
Waving her over. But she doesn’t see him, and I don’t say anything.
The room is packed. Rows of cameras are set up behind us, the front rows crowded with every journalist in Blackwater and a few more from nationals. Even Eileen is here, and I frown over at her before I can stop myself. She catches my eye and turns around to face the front.
A side door opens near the stage, and the noise in the room dips.
Boone walks out first. His dark suit jacket is unbuttoned, tie loosened like he’s preparing for a fight rather than a press conference.
Carter follows a few seconds later, looking immaculate in the suit I picked out last night.
Charcoal, to match the team colors. He rolls his shoulder as he settles into the chair beside Boone, his posture tight in comparison to the way Boone lounges back beside him.
Neither of them say a word to each other.
Ness takes the seat at the end of the table. Her bright red blazer stands out against the Meridian sponsor wall decorated with dozens of tiny logos.
Lauren shifts. “You okay?”
“Fine.” The word comes so easily now.
Practice makes perfect.
Ness taps the microphone, and the whole room winces at the screech of feedback before she begins.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, everyone. As you know, we’ve got Carter Reynolds, captain of the Blackwater Titans, and Boone Mercer, captain of the Blackwater Aces.
We’ll start with any questions relating to today’s joint Sponsor Day before moving on to hockey. Please state your name and outlet.”
A good two-thirds of the room throws their hand into the air. I spot Ryker grinning as Benji forces his hand down, and a laugh grows and dies in my throat.
The questions start off easy. I spot the exact moment the teams start to shuffle in their chairs from boredom. Everyone aside from Jonas, who stares up at the podium like he’s willing himself up on it.
Eileen’s hand shoots up. Ness gives her the room at once, much to my irritation. She smiles widely at Boone. “Viewers across the country would like to know. Is there a special omega in your life, Mr. Mercer? Or perhaps a vacancy?”
Fuck me. Her eyes actually twinkle behind her moon-shaped glasses. Titters fill the room.
“Somebody escort grandma to the door.” At my mutter, both Lauren and the guy seated in front turn to give me horrified looks, and I slam my mouth closed.
Boone leans towards his microphone, his smirk on full show. “Unfortunately, I’m not in the market, Eileen. If I was, you’d be first on my list.”
Ugh. Also—wait. What?
A ripple of laughter moves through the room. Eileen waves a hand at him. “Oh, you.”
Another hand. “Megan Brandon, Blackwater Daily. My question is for both captains. How did you find working together on the Scheltzer shoot? Do you think hockey and alcohol are a natural alliance?”
There’s a faint barb in her question, and I’m impressed. Carter takes the mic. “Uh, good question. I think that there’s a time and a place for people who enjoy a beer. I know I’ll be having one after this.”
A few laughs follow his words. “The Titans matches are family friendly and we’re proud to grow our supporters from an early age.
We also take special measures at the Furnace to prevent intoxication in the stands during games.
Our choice of brand partners is always something to be mindful of.
But in moderation, I don’t see a problem. ”
“And to answer your other question, Reynolds spent most of the shoot complaining,” Boone adds into his own mic.
Carter looks more like he’s gritting his teeth than smiling. “I was offering creative direction.”
“You asked if they could replace me with a cardboard cutout,” Boone says slyly. “If you want to take me home, Reynolds, all you have to do is ask.”
Even the Titans look like they’re smothering amusement.
Ness is already pointing to the next question, but Megan stands up, interrupting her. “And do you have any reputational or moral concerns about working with the Scheltzer brand, given the accusations of domestic abuse recently reported against its founder? Or does money talk?”
Well, shit. I straighten in my seat. Carter’s face turns to stone.
He glances at Boone. “I wouldn’t normally speak for Mercer, but I think we can both say that we were not aware of those accusations.
Domestic violence is not an issue I could ever look past. We’ll pick this up immediately after the conference ends. Thanks for letting us know.”
Boone nods, leaning into the mic. “Reynolds has it correct. If that’s true, we won’t be going ahead with the partnership.”
Several faces swivel to look at the guy directly in front of me, and I note the Scheltzer lanyard around his neck. He drops down in his seat, the back of his neck reddening.
The questions move on to the shared arena. The rivalry. The Atlantic standings. Boone fields one about whether the Aces’ recent form proves their relocation to the Furnace is working.
“We don’t need a fancy arena to do well,” he says smoothly. “But, you know, it probably helps. They have their own massage room.”
Carter rolls his eyes.
“One for Carter. You’ve looked less aggressive off the rush over the last few weeks,” Callum Morris says.
His tone is conversational, but Carter’s face tightens.
“That Midwest Swing was a tough run. Is that tactical, or are you dealing with anything physically? Ongoing issues from last season’s injury? ”
Carter stares down at the notes in front of him. “Never been in better health. I agree, the Midwest was tough, but we’ve seen that before. Everyone’s allowed an off day, Cal. Hope you took a good look, because you won’t be seeing it again.”
Ness points towards the middle row. “Valerie? Try to keep it to a round half dozen. I know you like to push it.”
Valerie Adams rises slowly, smoothing a hand over the front of her cream trousers, a sharp crease down each side. She holds her recorder lightly in one hand.
“Today’s campaign has leaned heavily into the idea that the rivalry between the Titans and Aces is personal,” she begins. “Carter, you and Boone have known each other for a long time.”
Carter’s expression doesn’t shift. “I’m struggling to see a question there, Val.”
Her lips tilt up. “How much of your rivalry is due to the issues you faced during your childhood?”
Carter looks to Ness. She’s scowling. “That’s a red topic, Val. It’s in the brief.”
Boone’s chair rocks forward as he sits up.
“I’ll rephrase.” She waves a hand airily. “You both played together through college. Many people expected you to enter the draft together as a registered pack. When and why exactly did that relationship deteriorate?”
Ness leans towards her microphone, sounding desperate. Carter says nothing, but his eyes dart into the crowd, searching. “We’re running low on time, so let’s keep questions relevant to hockey.”
“It is relevant to hockey,” Valerie rebuts instantly. “Their history is central to the marketing campaign Meridian has spent the entire day pushing in our faces.”
Ness’s stare could melt steel. “That campaign is about the team rivalry.”
“Captained by two former friends who now appear unable to stand one another.” Valerie’s smile holds the victory of a shark scenting blood. “Was the breakdown in your friendship connected to your omega, Carter? Rosie Johnson?”
My name feels akin to a detonation. Dozens of eyes turn my way, but I don’t look away from the podium. When Carter finds my face, I see him inhale.
“Rosie is a member of the Titans organization,” Carter says, still looking at me. Each word lands separately. “She is not a topic for this press conference, nor is she a player. She deserves her privacy. Next question.”
“She’s also your omega.” Fucking hell, she just doesn’t stop. My teeth bite into my cheek hard enough to taste copper.
“I have a source that states that you both lived with the Mercer family,” Valerie continues, eyes fixed on Carter.
“According to several sources including former classmates, the three of you were virtually inseparable until you weren’t.
Those sources suggest there was a personal disagreement involving Rosie. ”
My stomach turns.
“That’s not true,” I whisper. Lauren’s hand settles on my knee.
Sources. Classmates. How long has she been digging up dirt on us? How many stones of my life has she picked over for whatever story she’s building?
Nobody is interrupting now. Everyone’s too busy waiting for an answer. Valerie lifts her recorder. “Boone, did you leave college because of an inappropriate relationship with your teammate’s partner?”
“No,” Boone says immediately. The word is sharp enough to cut. Beside him, Carter looks like he’s on the verge of flipping the table over. His fingers grip the edge tightly.
Valerie doesn’t blink. “Was there a relationship?”
Boone leans into his microphone. He’s not smiling. “Jesus, Valerie. You make it sound like I stole his girl. What are we, twelve? Let’s all move on, shall we?”
“So there is not, nor has there ever been, a relationship between you and Rosie Johnson?” She holds her recorder higher.
Boone’s mouth curves, but it isn’t a smile. It’s the expression he wears before a face-off, all teeth and nerves and something reckless burning underneath. “Not then. Doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about it now, though.”
He grins into the silence. “How’s that for your rivalry story, Val?”
Carter moves so fast his water bottle tips over. His roar gets picked up on every microphone, amplified until it bounces back at us from every wall. “You fucking asshole.”
He launches himself at Boone. Both of their chairs tip back, the two alphas sprawling across the floor as reporters push closer, yelling between the teams who try to push their way through to get to their captain.
And at the back of the room, is me. Lauren is talking to me urgently, but nothing gets through. There’s only a buzzing in my head.
Some turn away from the front when they can’t get close enough to Boone and Carter for a good photo. They stare at me instead, moving closer. Flashes set off in my face, and all I do is sit there as they call things out to me.
To the foster girl. The omega. The partner.
And beneath the shouts, beneath Ness demanding the cameras be turned off and someone yelling my name above the crowd, I hear the quiet click of someone taking my photograph.
I’m used to them being the story. Until now. I flinch back from another flash, and Lauren steps in front of me. “Back the hell off!”
The room is descending into chaos. An arm wraps around my shoulders and I try to shove it away—
“It’s me.” Hands fight with me. “Rosie, stop. It’s me!”
Liam. My hands stop in mid-air, a sob leaving my mouth. “I—”
“I need to get you out of here.” His face could be carved from stone, but his touch is gentle. “He’s not going to calm down until you’re away. Come on. I’ll take you home.”
“I’ll come with you,” Lauren says. She holds up a hand against another flash.
“No.” He stops her, holding out a hand but dropping it. There are too many cameras here. “Stay here with Jonas. I need to focus on Rosie right now.”
“Sure.” But I see the faint flinch back against his words. “That okay with you, Rosie?”
I don’t get a chance to answer before Liam bundles me out of a side door and into the hall, away from the ruckus inside.
“Come on,” he says grimly. “Home.”