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But I’ve got nothing.
“My sources tell me you’re refusing to speak against him at the hearing,” the reporter pushes when I don’t respond. “Are you in support of your father being released?”
He’s not the only reporter circling. Several others lurk in the hotel lobby, sharks who’ve smelled my blood. A man holding a notebook and a woman with a cameraman in tow hurry over.
“Luke Ryder?” the woman says eagerly. “Do you have any comment regarding—”
Garrett notes my expression, and his own promptly hardens to stone. He barks, “No comment,” and then lays a hand on my arm to usher me away.
In the elevator, he gives me a grave look. “What floor?”
“Nine,” I say weakly.
A few minutes later, Garrett and I walk into my room. Word of the sharks downstairs has already spread through the Briar grapevine, because several of my friends are already in the room. They alternate between eyeing me uneasily and trying not to gawk at Garrett Graham.
“Dude, there’s a bunch of reporters downstairs asking questions,” Shane says grimly.
“Yeah, just saw them.”
I take a breath and go to the mini fridge. I grab a bottle of water, but I don’t uncap it. I just press it to my forehead. I’m feeling hot. Tight with discomfort.
“What the fuck is going on?” I mutter to the guys.
Beckett speaks up from the small love seat across the room. “Your old buddy Michael Klein gave an interview last night. Clips of it went viral.”
My jaw clenches. “What did he say?”
Shane meets my eyes. “Wasn’t great.”
“What did he say?” I repeat.
My friends give me the rundown. A sports blog ran video profiles on some of the Arizona players, including Klein. When asked about his previous relationship with me, he basically painted me as a goon with a temper who went after him for no reason in the locker. Oh, but don’t worry, Mr. Martyr went on to say, “It’s all water under the bridge,” and “He’s moved past it.”
But that’s not the part that went viral. When asked whether my actions after the World Juniors shocked him, Klein said he wasn’t surprised at all, seeing as how violence runs in my family.
“Fucking hell,” Garrett mutters in disapproval.
The reporter then took that statement and eagerly ran with it. Did some digging, found out about my past, and wrote a follow-up article. A source in the Maricopa Attorney’s Office apparently told them I was refusing to attend the hearing, and now it’s being posited that I’m not speaking against my father because I want him to be released.
What I want is to throw up.
Other bodies drift in, including Coach Jensen and Coach Maran, and soon there’s a full-scale meeting in process. My entire body feels itchy, like there’re ants creeping along my skin. Shane and Beckett know about my dad, about Owen, but nobody else does, and now I’m forced to stand there and discuss the darkest thing that’s ever happened to me.
I don’t offer details, not to the level I did with Gigi. I give my teammates only the gist of it. Dad had gun. Gun go bang. Mom dead.
They’re all stricken. Even Trager looks upset.
“It’s fine,” I tell them, so uncomfortable I want to crawl into a hole.
I wish Gigi were here, but she’s not coming until tomorrow. I’m sure if I called her, she’d hop in the car and break every speed limit to get here. But tonight was supposed to be about my team. Dinner, game tape, our last official night of a roller-coaster season full of ups and downs.
“Why is this Klein asshole giving interviews about shit that’s none of his business?” The outraged demand comes from Rand Hawley.
“For real,” Trager actually agrees with Rand. “I’m starting to think this dude deserved to have his jaw wired shit.”
I shrug. “He did. Said a lot of nastier shit in the locker room after the game.”
“What did he say?” Colson glances at me from his perch against the wall next to Garrett. They exchanged a hug when Case came in. I didn’t love seeing that.
“Nothing that bears repeating.” A sigh lodges in my throat as I look around the room. “You guys have played with me all year. You know I don’t have a temper. It takes a lot to trigger me.”
“So this fucking asshole was running his mouth back then, and now he’s doing it again,” Trager says. “You know what they’re trying to do, right? They’re trying to distract us with this superfluous bullshit so that our heads aren’t in the game.”
Angry murmurs go through the room. Me, I’m more impressed by the fact that Trager knows the word superfluous.
“Well, fuck that,” Rand pipes up, nodding at Trager. “It’s not going to work.”
“No,” Colson agrees. “It won’t.”
Coach Jensen finally speaks, his hard gaze landing on me. “We can skip the press conference tomorrow morning if you want. I have no issue telling the officials we’re not interested.”
