“You better not. Now, get going. If Amanda isn’t your first stop, you might as well pack your things now and get the hell out of my sight.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
carter
I clearmy throat and it echoes throughout the room. It takes everything in me not to wince at the irritating sound. I’m here to put on a show, and I have to look as apologetic as I’m supposed to feel.
Let’s get this over with, shall we?
“I’m deeply apologetic for what happened on Saturday night,” I say into the microphone. I feel the heat crawling up my neck. This is mortifying. I still don’t regret hitting that idiot, so I hope this sounds more sincere than it is. “I should have taken the high road, and I should not have resorted to violence to solve a dispute. It was an immature decision, and I’m incredibly sorry to my Coach, my teammates, and to the city of Pittsburgh.”
Thank you, Amanda in PR.
Declan nods, but his head is hanging low. He suddenly finds the base of his microphone extremely interesting. I know what he’s doing. He’s making sure they’re watching me. He’s making sure his facial expressions don’t get ridiculed or picked apart. He’s trying his hardest not to make me laugh with onemisplaced second of eye contact. Because that’s what happens with us, like two naughty boys who hang out in the back of math class.
I also think this makes him want to die a bit, too. He knows I don’t mean a fucking word of this.
“Uh,” I say, pulling at the neck of my dress shirt. I peer around the room, seeing all the bloodthirsty faces staring up at me. They expect this behaviour from me. They love when I do this shit. They adore the stories about The Beast being untameable. It makes their job fun.
But it’s what Coach said I need to change. If I want to keep playing, my image needs a heavy rebrand, and I need to stop giving these hungry reporters any negative ammo.
I have to stay on this team.
All eyes are on me, and I’m not seeing anyone nodding along or looking sympathetic. That’s a clear sign that my apology isn’t hitting its mark. Am I tanking this? Does anyone in this room believe I’m sorry? Do they think I deserve to be here, pleading for my spot on the ice? Their words and their articles are going to have an impact on the public. Theyhaveto buy what I’m selling.
I don’t know why I do it.
I don’t know when the idea enters my mind, and I don’t know why I don’t take a second to think about it. It’s a fucking stupid idea. Reckless, even. An easily provable lie, but it will appease the salivating lion’s den that waits in front of me with their cameras and microphones pointed in my face.
It might even get Coach off my back, too.
I still did what I did, but this might be the first step in saving my reputation and my ass if I play it right. It’s definitely not what Amanda told me to do, but I don’t think her tactics are working as well as they were supposed to. My sad excuse ofan apology has not swayed the hungry crowd thus far, and my reputation tour kicks off in this room.
“Look, I’ll be honest with you,” I say, sighing. I lean back in my seat, rubbing at the back of my neck. “What happened that night happened because that man assaulted my girlfriend.”
Lowesy goes rigid—like, his back goes completely stiff.
I stare straight ahead, but even from the corner of my eye, I can tell that his brow is furrowed forward. His eyes skirt sideways toward me, head still aimed at the table, full-blown confusion written all over his face.
Play it off, you fucking idiot.
A murmur goes through the room. Oh, they hadn’t realized that Carter Forkerro had a girlfriend? Great. Neither did Carter Forkerro.
“I didn’t react well, but he had already been giving her a hard time throughout the night. It started with a spilled drink and it ended with non-consensual physical touching. My restraint snapped and I hit him. It was not my finest moment, I get that, but I won’t stand for a man assaulting any woman, especially mine.”
Declan is back to staring at the microphone stand. His brow is still knotted forward, trying to look impassive but failing.
A dweeb in the front row raises his hand. Normally, I like the media. I find this part of the job pretty fun. I know how to put on the charm, how to get the laughs. I’m good at keeping them on my side. But this guy right here, the one with the hair slicked down by a pound of gel, he is a different story. He makes press time torturous. He’s always asking inappropriate shit with a snivelly little look on his face.
“Hi, Carter,” Greg says with a tight smile. I dip my chin. “What does your‘girlfriend’have to say about how youbehaved? Does she support what you did, or does she support the boy who is pressing charges?”
I stare at him, grinding my molars. First of all, he wasn’t aboy.He was at least twenty-five years old. Greg used that word for a reason. That was fully intentional. He wants to garner sympathy for an asshole. He also used air quotes when he said ‘girlfriend,’ which means snooty little Gregory isn’t buying my act. So, now I want to bury him, but unfortunately, it means I have to be extra nice.
“I mean, yeah,” I say, nodding as if I’m considering his question and not punching his head off, “she would prefer I didn’t hit thatman,but at the same time, I don’t think she or anybody in this room would support someone who assaults another person. There were better ways to handle it, but I think the main takeaway is that there shouldn’t have been an assault at all.”
If he never touched her, I wouldn’t have touched him. Simple.
Greg’s face goes a little red, but he doesn’t look quite finished. A few reporters, a majority of them women, are nodding their heads and jotting things down in their notes. He takes a cursory look around the room and realizes he’s lost the ability to paint this any differently. He relents and relaxes back in his seat.
