Chapter 2 #2
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Yeah.”
“Go.”
He moves, slower than usual but purposeful enough, and I pull my phone out as I step away from the noise.
I need to call Christian. Because whatever just came out of Elijah, that wasn’t some one-off explosion he can shake off in an hour. That was the beginning of something a whole lot darker, and Christian needs to know exactly how bad it is.
He answers on the second ring.
“Yeah.”
“Christian,” I say, keeping my voice low. “It’s really bad.”
Silence on the other end for half a second.
“What happened?”
“Elijah just tried to kill Alex Vargas on the ice,” I say, the words sounding unreal even as I say them. “He completely lost it. They’ve got him with security right now.”
Christian swears hard under his breath.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
There’s movement on his end, voices in the background, the sound of a door opening and shutting.
“I’ll sort it,” he says, his tone sharpening into something precise and immediate. “I’ll find out exactly what they’re doing.”
“I’ve been told I have to do media,” I say, and even now the words feel insane in my mouth.
“The plane will be landing in thirty minutes,” he replies. “Do what you need to do there, then get out. Someone will meet you and take you straight through.”
I drag a hand through my hair, my chest tight enough to hurt.
“Have you found anything?”
“Not yet,” he says. “But we will.”
Not if.
Will.
It should help. It doesn’t.
“Jackson!” someone shouts across the room. “Move.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Go,” Christian says. “I’ve got this.”
The line disconnects.
I change fast, barely aware of what I’m doing beyond the mechanics of it, jersey off, suit jacket on, hands moving without my head really being part of it, and then someone from staff is already at the door, waving me along like this is just another post-game obligation and not the most deranged fucking thing I’ve ever had to do.
The media room is too bright.
The lights. The cameras. The stale chill of over-conditioned air. The neat rows of seats and microphones and people pretending this is all normal while my whole body is running on adrenaline and dread.
Questions start almost as soon as I sit down.
“Jackson, what can you tell us about what happened with Bellandi out there tonight?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Was there something said on the ice that triggered that altercation?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Was the team already on edge before the incident?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
The words come out flatter every time, tighter, clipped at the edges with everything I’m forcing down beneath them.
Because what I want to say is not something I can put into a microphone.
What I want to say is someone took our woman and he was looking at the man who knew it.
What I want to say is if you’d seen Elijah’s face, you wouldn’t be asking me this shit.
What I want to say is go find her.
Instead I sit there under the lights and answer like a machine.
“We’ve noticed you’ve been less active on social media recently,” one of them says after a beat. “Is everything okay off the ice?”
My grip tightens around the edge of the table.
“I’m fine.”
It comes out shorter than it should.
Another voice cuts in before the first one is even done.
“There’s been some speculation that your public image has shifted over the last few months—”
I bite down hard on whatever rises in my throat.
“I’m focused on hockey.”
“Is that why you’ve reduced your fan engagement online?”
I look at him.
Really look at him.
And for one ugly second all I can think about is Lia somewhere I can’t reach, Elijah pacing like a caged animal behind security doors, Zach barely holding himself together, and me being asked about fucking social media.
“I said I’m focused on hockey,” I reply, each word a little harder than the last.
There’s a small pause. Someone senses the edge and backs off. Another reporter pivots back to the game, asks about the loss, asks about Vegas’s pressure in the final stretch, asks something about team morale that I barely hear.
I answer. Barely. Every minute I sit there feels wrong in a way I can’t explain, like my body knows I’m supposed to be somewhere else and is rejecting every second of this.
By the time it ends, I’m holding on to restraint by my fingernails. I stand, ready to walk straight out, but PR intercepts me before I can clear the room.
“You cannot comment publicly on what happened with Elijah tonight,” she says immediately, stepping into my path with that polished, practiced expression people wear when they think control is the same thing as competence. “We’re going to try to keep this contained as much as possible.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I know,” she replies. “Keep it that way.”
She starts walking with me, like I’ve somehow agreed to this conversation.
“And Jackson, we need to talk about your brand.”
I stop and look at her.
“My what?”
“Your visibility,” she says. “Your engagement has changed. You’ve been pulling back from the kind of content that built your audience. We’ve noticed a shift, and after tonight it would be smart to think carefully about how you manage your image moving forward.”
For a second I actually don’t know what to say, because the absurdity of it almost knocks the breath out of me.
“What I do with my social media is up to me.”
She offers a tight little smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“We’re just asking you to think about the future of your career.”
I stare at her for a beat.
Then, as evenly as I can, I say, “Can I go now?”
“Not yet,” she says. “We need a few photos first.”
Of course they do.
I don’t have the energy to fight it without causing an even bigger scene, so I let myself be steered down another hallway and into a smaller event space where a handful of fans are waiting with bright smiles and phones already out.
The whole thing feels surreal.
I stand where I’m told to stand. I let cameras flash in my face. I let people lean in too close and laugh too loudly and tell me how amazing the game was when I can barely hear them over the pounding in my own head.
All the while, one thought keeps threading through everything else. She is out there somewhere, and I have no idea what is happening to her right now.
The thought curdles into something sick and heavy in my stomach as another fan presses in beside me for a photo, perfume too sweet, hand sliding over my arm like she has any right to touch me.
A brunette with glossy lips and a tight dress asks if I’ve got a girlfriend in town. Another says she’s followed me since I was signed and she’d love to “take my mind off the loss.”
I look at them, at the bright expectation in their faces, and all I can feel is revulsion.
One of them tries to slip me a number.
“I don’t want that,” I say, sharper than I intended.
She blinks, startled. Good. I step back.
“I’m done here.”
Someone from staff starts to protest, but I’m already moving. I walk out before anyone can stop me, pulse hammering, hands flexing uselessly at my sides as I push into the quieter hallway beyond the event room.
“Jackson.”
I turn to see Zach is coming toward me, and even from the way he moves I can tell things haven’t improved. He looks more present than before, but only just. Like he’s forcing himself upright through sheer effort.
“They’ve got Elijah,” he says when he reaches me. “He’s still with security.”
My jaw tightens.
“What’s happening?”
Zach scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s a mess. The team’s talking about assault. Vegas is pushing for it. Security’s trying to keep him there until legal works out what they’re doing.”
A hot, vicious pulse of anger moves through me.
Of course they are. Of course this gets to become paperwork and protocols and damage control while Lia is missing.
“Christian said the plane will be here shortly,” I tell him. “He’s sorting what he can from his end.”
Zach nods once, hard.
“Good.”
I hold his gaze for a second, then glance toward the corridor that leads deeper into the restricted part of the arena.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go find him and sort this out.”
Because whatever happens next, whatever legal mess or security bullshit or fallout waits behind those doors, none of it changes the only thing that matters.
We need Elijah.
We need to get out of here.
And then we need to go get our girl.