“It’s never going to change,” Harrison muttered. “Get used to it, Fraser.”
“I plan on it,” said Jett. “Where’s the car?”
Harrison’s grip on his hand tightened as he led them down the hall, blatantly ignoring the woman from the press when she spoke Jett’s name and asked him to stop. Jett shot her a sheepish smile, but he was with Harrison on this one. He wasn’t in the mood for media shmoozing.
It was like being led down the hallway by his aggressive attack dog. All sorts of people tried to approach them to ask questions or start up conversations, but Harrison growled at them and they backed off, clearing the way for a quick exit.
Jett thought they might be safe when they made it outside the building, but then they were suddenly ambushed and cornered against the doors by the press.
“Harrison Killinger, we haven’t seen you in so long,” said a redheaded woman wearing too much makeup. “How has life been?”
“Peachy,” said Harrison. “Now fuck off.”
“There are rumours that you’re joining the Sunbursts as an assistant coach. Care to comment?”
“I don’t know,” Harrison said in a sarcastic, biting tone. “Did you take notes on my last comment and learn from it?”
A man stepped forward and shoved a mic in Jett’s face. “Can you clarify if you two are in a relationship?”
Harrison answered before Jett could.
“How is that any of your fucking business? You some kind of pervert?”
More people stepped forward, asking so many questions that Jett couldn’t keep track of them.
“Is your leg healed enough to skate?”
“How did you cope with losing not only your NHL career, but the two people you were closest to?”
“Why were you in hiding for the last five years?”
“Were you drunk on the night of the accident when your brother and your best friend died?”
“HEY!”
A ringing silence followed the shout, and Jett opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized he had closed them.
He thought Harrison yelled, but he was not expecting to see Sébastien Blanchard shoving the press out of the way, elbowing one of the reporters hard enough that he cried out and dropped his mic.
“Esti de câlice de tabarnak, c'est pas possible comment que t'es cave! Get the fuck away from them before I beat the shit out of every single one of you fucking vultures!”
It was a threat Jett knew Blanchard would likely follow through with. He had been in altercations with the press before.
The people around them knew it too. Some were eyeing Blanchard’s bruised face and clenched fists, while others were already walking away.
“That’s what I fucking thought, eh? Bunch of fucking ass-licking, arrogant pricks—corner these two in my city again, and I’ll shove my goddamn hockey stick so far up your ass, you’ll taste it!”
Jett squeezed Harrison’s hand to comfort him after the verbal assault of questions, but he was relaxed and smiling as he looked down at Blanchard.
Blanchard glared back for a moment, but then Jett blinked and his expression shifted into a smile that could charm the pants off a nun.
“Fucking dicks, am I right?”
Harrison scoffed. “You’re not wrong, but I’m also starting to understand why you never get picked for interviews.”
“I like it that way. It’s better for everyone’s health and safety.” He gestured toward the parking lot and said, “Come on, I will walk you to your car. I don’t trust those fuckers to leave you alone.”
“We’re good, Blanchard,” said Harrison. “Go back where you came from before your girlfriend finds another hockey stick to play with.”
