Page 83 of Ice Devil

New York. Full of assholes. The picture was complete with the two of us in what appeared to be a very compromising position. Some fan or paparazzi had made serious bucks in selling off the various pictures I’d seen fly over the internet.

Most doctored to the hilt.

Did people not know AI could be detected? Especially when using a background from five years before? Didn’t people check for accuracy before they posted slanderous bullshit?

Technology made things much easier, convenience a delicious tool when attempting to destroy a person’s career. But only when placed in the hands of those intelligent enough to know how to handle the power. Spending ten minutes on Canva would have prevented real garbage from hitting the internet.

Sadly, as with all ravenous dogs, the feeding frenzy on bloody meat had rivaled anything a single shifter had been accused of doing in their primal states of being.

Then there were the headlines about the last Hellions’ game. I’d yet to be able to stomach watching any replays.

The loss had nearly destroyed me.

I should say both losses.

The game itself, while still close, had highlighted the damage done from the horrible interview that had suddenly aired on every network, the podcast going viral.

Within hours, pictures of an incident from three years before had surfaced. I’d researched Beck and his brother Ford and hadn’t found them. Even after spending more time on the search, I’d found limited information. Yes, a few watchdog groups had used the incident that had occurred very much like the one from a couple of nights before to argue that shifters were dangerous, but nothing had come of it.

And why?

Because hockey by nature could be a violent sport. Especially when there were behind the scenes games going on.

That was exactly what had occurred. Now it was my job to figure out why and by whom.

Although I already had a pretty good guess of the whom, especially since being on the Sports Today show had been tossed around like a hunk of meat on a spit hanging over a hyena.

I’d gone straight home as soon as the plane had landed, ignoring phone calls, including from other reporters acting as if I’d just opened the largest can of worms in the world. In the dead of night, I’d disguised myself and had headed to a hotel to get a good night’s sleep.

As if the pesky reporters hadn’t found me when trying to get coffee while wearing my ugliest sweatpants the next morning.

I hadn’t been going for beauty, instead full anonymity. That hadn’t worked, my face plastered all over the internet along with Beck’s.

That had been four days ago.

After the team had lost the last semifinal game and their bid for a Stanley Cup.

After I’d run out of red wine to drown my sorrows in.

After my local convenience mart had experienced a broken freezer, which had meant a sticky mess made on their tile floor from my favorite rocky road ice cream.

And after I’d been labeled a femme fatale by half a dozen newspapers across the country.

Gee. It would appear I was coming up in the world.

I’d finally made it to the office for one purpose.

Having a long and painful—on his side—chat with Matt. He’d set me up and I wanted to know exactly who he’d sold his soul to.

Wouldn’t you know it. The chicken shit had decided not to come into work.

I’d finally had enough, my patience drained. The other reporters in the press room had all but ignored me, half leaving early. Now I was all alone on the floor, swallowed up by sadness and anger.

I pulled my phone into my hand, checking it for the hundredth time.

Nothing had changed.

Me: Beck. We need to talk. We were both railroaded.