Page 122 of Pucking Forbidden

“I’m calling your grandfather,” Dad declares, his thumb already scrolling through his contacts. “And then I’m calling my legal team. We’re going to fix this before that giant idiot blows up his entire life for no reason.”

He walks toward the kitchen counter, pressing the phone to his ear as the line begins to ring. I stare after him, my jaw dropped, and for the first time since Julian walked out of the dark arena last night, the smallest flicker of hope catches in my chest. I hurry to grab my phone, only then realizing I never turned it back on. Powering it up, it instantly starts going off with tons of messages from the girls. Turns out, Lainey did get a hold of them when I didn’t answer…and as my phone pings, an idea starts to form in my head.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN: THE PRESS CONFERENCE

JULIAN

The ringing in my ears is a deafening, white-noise roar that makes the hum of the media center's ventilation system sound like a distant whisper. I barely feel the pavement beneath my boots as I walk toward the entrance. The pre-dawn flight from Denver was a miserable blur.

My mind is trapped in an agonizing loop, replaying the moment I shattered my own life in the third row of that dark hockey rink. I see Hadley’s face under the amber safety lights. Tears leave tracks on her cheeks. I hear her voice begging me not to do this.

The worst part is that I know she was right. This is the coward’s choice. I’m turning my back on her and my friends. Running away to Chicago. Signing a contract under the thumb of a blackmailer instead of standing up for myself. Still, as I push open the heavy glass doors of the arena’s executive wing, my jaw locked tight enough to crack my molars, I just don’t see another way out. If I stay in Denver, Williams leaks those photos. If he leaks those photos, Hadley’s reputation is systematically dismantled by sports blogs before she can even finish her degree. The Night Hawks’ season gets choked out by a media circus. My teammates lose their focus. Coach Sullivan gets dragged into a nepotism scandal. Everything we built disappears because I was selfish enough to want something good.

I have to be the sacrifice. I’ve always been the sacrifice.

As I’m making my way down the main corridor of the Ironclad arena leading to the press room, Stetson steps out from the green room next door, a smug smile fixed on his rat-like face.

“Julian. Right on time.”

He looks immaculate in his tailored charcoal suit, adjusting his silk tie with a casual flick of his wrist. His beady eyes glint behind his glasses, and he runs a hand over his slicked-back hair. He steps in front of me, his voice dropping into a low murmur meant only for my ears.

“We have the podium set up,” he says, tapping a leather folder against his palm. “The statement is simple. You’ll read the prepared text. We’ve included personal reasons, a desire to finish your career in your hometown, and deep gratitude to the Night Hawks organization for accommodating the mid-season transition. Keep your head up, look remorseful but resolved, and this all goes away. Do we understand each other?”

I don't say a word. My fists are clenched inside my jacket pockets so tight that my fingernails are drawing blood against my palms. Every violent instinct I’ve spent a decade refining on the ice is screaming at me to grab this bastard by his stupid silk collar and drive his teeth into the concrete floor. If I lose it now, everything gets infinitely worse.

So I just give him a sharp nod, my throat dry as ash.

“Excellent,” Stetson nods. “Coach Williams is inside already, waiting. Let’s get to the table.”

“Don’t move an inch, Julian,” a stern voice suddenly snaps through the air. Freezing, I turn and am stunned to find Liam marching down the corridor toward us.

What the fuck is he doing here?

He’s wearing a three-piece navy suit, his leather briefcase gripped firmly in his right hand, his hair combed to the side. He looks determined and coldly furious. His sharp, analytical eyes are locked directly on me.

“This press conference is officially suspended,” Liam’s voice booms.

Stetson’s face hardens, his smug demeanor slipping for a fraction of a second. “Excuse me? Sir, this is a closed media event. Security, please remove this man…”

“My name is Liam Sullivan,” Hadley’s dad interrupts, staring the assistant down. “I am Julian Wilder’s legal counsel. I represent his interests, his contract, and also serve as his civil representation. My client will not be making a statement today.”

I stand frozen, my jaw dropping. My brain is working at a complete deficit, trying to process the reality of the situation. Hadley's father? My lawyer? One sharp, sideways glance from beneath his dark eyebrows is enough for me to keep my mouth shut and play along.

The door to the press room opens, and Coach Williams steps out into the corridor, wearing a scowl.

“What the hell is going on?” he hisses, slipping out and shutting the door behind him. “This thing was supposed to start…who are you?” His eyes land on Liam and narrow.

Stetson clears his throat, attempting to salvage his composure. “Coach, this is Liam Sullivan, Julian’s legal representation…apparently. Mr. Sullivan, if there are outstanding legal stipulations or final contract addendums regarding the trade agreement, those can be handled in the front office after the media availability…”

“There is no trade agreement,” Liam states matter-of-factly, his voice dropping into an icy register that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. “If you continue this charade, I’ll bury you in extortion charges, illegal surveillance, and a multi-million-dollar civil suit that will leave the Ironclads organization bankrupt before the day is over.”

Coach Williams’s face turns a mottled shade of purple. He steps forward and points a thick finger at Liam. “Now see here, Sullivan, Wilder already agreed to the transfer terms this morning. He signed the preliminary intent. Backing out now is a breach of verbal contract, and if you think you can come into my house and threaten me…”

“I’m not threatening you, Coach,” Liam replies, his voice calm but lethal as he points to the green room door. “I suggest we take this conversation somewhere more private. Unless you’d prefer I march into the press room and make this a very public discussion?”

The sheer weight of his legal authority is an iron wall. Within ten seconds, Stetson’s face goes from pale to translucent. He glances at Coach Williams, gives a frantic nod, and quickly ushers us into the green room.

The door clicks shut behind us, and Williams turns on us immediately.