She’d left the fucking camera on.
His skin felt too tight, everything prickled, as if he’d been swarmed by fire ants or something. He clawed at his tie, tugging it loose so he could pop the button on his collar.
He glanced over at Decker, who’d respectfully turned his head.
What the fuck had Janelle done? Had she texted it to all his teammates because he’d been ignoring her calls? “Where’d you get this?”
He knew he wasn’t going to like the answer even before Jason refused to look at him. He pulled the headphones off. “Where the fuck did you get this?”
His voice sounded loud in the darkened interior of the plane. “It’s all over the internet, man. I just thought you should know.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Her doorbell rang at three in the morning, but it didn’t surprise her. In a weird way, she’d kind of been expecting it. Expecting him.
Which was why she was tucked up with a blanket in the corner of her couch right now, instead of lying in bed.
Chelsea glanced at her phone on the coffee table. The screen had gone dark, but she knew if she unlocked it, the video would be paused right where she’d left it, with a woman’s hand reaching for the ties on Brett’s swim trunks.
The image was seared into her brain.
She recognized everything. The gray pool tile. The lounge chair. His abs. She even recognized the spot on his inner forearm that should have a heart wrapped in barbed wire on it, though on the screen, it only sported precise black script that read, “Janelle.”
Chelsea hadn’t been able to bring herself to watch past that. She didn’t want to see that part of his life. The part he tried to cover with ink on his skin. The part that turned his gray-blue eyes uncertain when he talked about it. It was too much, too raw for her to handle with her heart so bruised.
With a fortifying breath, she got off the sofa and shuffled over to answer his knock. The thunk of the deadbolt unlocking seemed overly loud in the quiet of her house. She pulled the door open.
Brett’s shoulders were slumped, his suit wrinkled. He’d obviously come straight from the airport. He looked tired. Sad. Not like the conquering hero he deserved to be tonight.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
His head came up then, and something flared in his eyes, replacing the wariness. Surprise? Hope? “You’re not mad?”
She tried to process the question.
Confidence shaken? Yes.
Heart sore? Yes.
But not mad.
She shook her head, and the relief in his body language as he stepped into the house made her chest ache.
She might not be angry, but seeing him now, standing in front of her, she suddenly knew she wasn’t okay, either. Because how was she supposed to keep a man like him—one with adoring fans, women throwing themselves at him, with a damn sex tape, even—happy in the long run? Dustin would probably get a good laugh out of the fact that she’d ever thought she could.
“Chels.” He said her name like it hurt him, and she kind of understood, because it hurt her to hear it, too. He lifted his hand, pushed her hair behind her ear. She closed her eyes, reveling in the brush of his fingers.
But when she opened her eyes, his fingers stilled.
Something in his face changed, and he pulled his hand back. It was as if he could see all the emotions battling inside her, how desperately she wanted how she should feel and how she did feel to figure out some middle ground already.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not hurt. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
She shook her head, trying to be rational. “You had a life before me. I know all that.”
Her words did nothing but make his jaw tight. “But?”
Chelsea opened her mouth, but she didn’t know what to say.
His shoulders stiffened, as though her silence was the worst possible choice, so she tried her best to articulate the tangle of confusion in her chest.
“I just…it’s a lot to process, Brett. I wasn’t expecting to see you and her. And logically, I get it. It’s an old video. And you two were married. You didn’t do anything wrong. At all. But it still feels awful. To see you in the pool room with her…where we…I don’t know. It’s all messed up. I mean, Jesus, Brett. You have a sex tape. You won’t let me give you head in a stairwell, but you let her film you.”
He nodded. Looked down at his feet. When he raised his head again, his expression had lost its earlier vulnerability. He was harder now. Braced for impact.
“I get it. It’s like you told Shanna. We’re just sex. You wanted a walk on the wild side, and that’s what screw-ups like me are for, right? Good enough for a fling, but not for anything long-term. You don’t even want anyone to know we’re together.”
Because this had been destined to fail from the start.
She hadn’t wanted to admit it before. Her father saw it. Shanna saw it. Everyone could see it but her.
This had never been the plan.
“One night, no names, remember? Maybe that’s all we were supposed to be.”
“Bullshit!”
His angry outburst made her flinch. “This stopped being one night the second I kissed you in that elevator. Do you get that?” Brett ran an agitated hand through his hair. “You’re not just some girl I picked up in a bar because I wanted to get laid!”
She wanted to cry. But better to end things now…before he realized she couldn’t give him what he needed. “Yes. I am.”
She watched as the fact of it crossed his face, as he realized the truth of how they’d met. His smile was resigned, laced with defeat and self-recrimination. “That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? You’re still playing by rules you made up before we even met. You always have been. Jesus, Chelsea. What’s a guy got to do to get you to take a shot with him?”
She crossed her arms, trying to staunch the ache in her chest as tears spilled down her cheeks.
Brett looked at the ceiling. Shook his head. “Cursed.” His chuckle was mirthless. “I’m never going to outrun my past, am I? When I think things are getting better, something always goes wrong, and I end up right back here. It’s almost fucking poetic, isn’t it? That what I had with Janelle was fake, but she made me believe it was real. And now that I’ve found the real thing with you, you’re trying to convince me it’s fake?”
He seemed angrier suddenly, he was almost vibrating with it.
“That’s fucking horse shit, and you know it. You want to be scared of what’s between us, then at least own it. Because you know that night when you think you got so down and dirty because you picked up a stranger in a bar? That was straight-up, off-the-menu, vanilla missionary sex. And it wasn’t good because it was dirty. It was good because it was us.”
Chelsea tightened her arms around herself to block out his words. To keep her insides from spilling out. “But I—”
“But you don’t want good. I know. That’s the problem. Because I do. You make me want everything good, Chels. And you just want me to be bad.”
The paraphrasing of her own words lashed deep, right to the bone.
“You want me to be your dirty stairwell blowjob, and there was a time when I would have settled for that. But I’m not that guy anymore. And I can’t be that again. Not even for you.”
“So what are you saying?” She knew already. Of course she did. But she hoped hearing him say it might make it feel more real later. When she was playing this over and over in her head until this gaping hole in her chest finally scabbed over or grew numb enough for her to function again.
“I’m saying what I meant to say before I got here. Before looking at your face made me want stuff I shouldn’t. I think we should break up. Or stop fucking. Or whatever this is to you. Your dad’s already requested the honor of my presence in his office tomorrow morning. And if by some miracle I convince him to let me keep playing, I can’t afford any distractions going forward. I’m here for hockey.”
With that, he turned an
d pushed through the screen door. But when it should have banged shut behind him, he paused on the snowy step, turning back to her. Biting March air rushed in, attacking her bare limbs, and she shivered, but she didn’t move. She just returned his steady, even gaze.
And then he left.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The summons played out just like Brett had expected, but that didn’t make it better.
There was an eerie sense of déjà vu at being hauled into Craig London’s office again, just like the day he’d arrived in Billings. Same cast of characters—the team owner, the PR guru, the coach, the captain, the lawyer.
“…made it clear that this kind of thing is completely unacceptable, and yet…”
Why shouldn’t the rest of his life fall to pieces? First Chelsea, now his career.
Cursed.
He hadn’t thought about it in a while. In fact, he’d actually started to believe that maybe that wouldn’t be the case. That he was in control of his own fate and that he could make better choices. Do better.
If a woman like Chelsea was giving him the time of day, he couldn’t be all bad, right?
But he’d screwed up with her, just like with every relationship he’d ever had. And now it had migrated to hockey. When the Portland Storm dumped him, that had been a one-off. If the Wolfpack let him go…that was a pattern.
This is why I can’t have nice things. I break everything I touch.
“…complete disregard to the team’s image, and furthermore…”
Brett’s suit was making him itchy. He ran a finger under his collar, reminding himself that his tie was not, in fact, strangling him, no matter how it felt that moment. Beside him, his agent was testy. The bounce of the man’s knee sped and slowed with Brett’s fate—the more it looked like they were going to cut him loose, the faster it got. He could feel the waves of “only you could screw up a franchise first this way,” that Graham Nealon was sending his way while the Wolfpack brass was busy infighting about Brett’s fate.
“…part of the community, not to mention our charity partners, who are bound to…”
Brett let the power struggle take place around him. The team offices were a couple blocks from the rink, and London’s office afforded a sweet view of the building, so he fixed his eyes on the gleaming silver complex and made himself breathe through the noise around him. Brett wished he was there now. His muscles were tight, and nothing burned off anxiety like a couple of laps on an empty sheet of ice.
“…now that we’ve made the post-season, we can’t be derailed by…”
And just when he’d thought he was getting somewhere, just when he thought there was a chance for him to pull himself out of the muck, it came back in an avalanche and buried him all over again.
Normally, this sort of tabloid story would have sent him into a spiral, have him wallowing, digging himself into a deeper hole.
But now, he could see the only option that gave him any chance of keeping his hockey career was to just start climbing out of the muck and keep doing better.
“…therefore, we’ve decided that our only option is—”
“Do I get a say in this?”
Brett’s question, the first time he’d spoken since he’d been dragged into the office an hour ago, detonated with a palpable force. Mouths snapped shut and all eyes turned to him. His agent’s bouncing knee went deathly still.
“Last night, this team made the playoffs for the first time ever. And while I would not dream of taking full credit, because the boys worked goddamn hard to give that to you, I am proud to be a part of it. It’s the reason you brought me here. You knew my reputation, you knew the personal drama that got me put on waivers in the first place, and you took a chance on me anyway.”
“A decision we’re paying for now,” Jennifer Okafor muttered under her breath. She turned to face London. “I’ve already had several phone calls from sponsors this morning who are concerned about how this looks, the impact it will have on our brand, and theirs by extension.”
“Your brand?” Brett asked. He could feel the gears of big business nipping at his heels, trying to get hold of him, to chew him up and spit him out. Perfectly willing to use him for his size and skill to get to the post-season, but the second he needed them to back him up, they were throwing him to the wolves. Some pack this was.
“So you’re going to chuck me for something that’s out of my control? I would understand your attitude if I spent last night fucking groupies!” Brett took a deep breath. Okay, maybe his professionalism could use a little work. Pull it together, Sillinger. You’re making a point here. “This is an old video, filmed by my ex-wife during our marriage, without my permission. And the only reason she released it was because we made the post-season.”
There was a knock on the door, but Brett was too into his rant to care who Craig London admitted with a slight frown and a wave of his fingers.
“She used me for publicity, and while I wish to God it had never happened, it was completely out of my control.”
“I think what my client is trying to say—”
Oh, sure. Now you want to give me a hand, Graham?
Brett shut him down with a look.
“What I’m saying is, this is bullshit. You brought me here to play hockey, and that’s what I’ve done. I’ve been on my best behavior.” He was pretty sure his ears turned red at London’s arch look, but he couldn’t think about Chelsea right now if he was going to get through this, and he certainly couldn’t think of Chelsea naked, so he turned his attention to the head of PR. Jennifer scowled at him, and it reminded him what was at stake.
“You think I want this video on the internet? That I’m proud to be a laughingstock? I’m not. But I’m damn proud of what happened on the ice last night. How we rallied and played a helluva game against one of the league’s best teams. I’m proud of my teammates and what we accomplished. And I get that this is a money game. That you need sponsors to make this work. But why don’t you remind those sponsors that I helped get us into the playoffs? I’m part of the reason that they’re going to be earning post-season exposure, post-season revenue, all of it.”
Jennifer acted like he hadn’t even spoken. She turned toward London and the lawyer. “Maybe we can sweep it under the rug, see how it plays out. I can smooth things over with some of the big sponsors and we can—”
“That’s not good enough.”
Again, all eyes in the room swung back to him.
“I want to face this head on.”
“What are you doing, kid?” Graham’s growl was a warning, backed up by the way his hands balled into fists around the papers he’d rolled into a tube, twisting it slowly. No doubt the man was imagining Brett’s neck in his grasp right now.
“Let me do a press conference this afternoon.”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Jennifer advised, and legal counsel Thad Osprey was nodding vigorously at her assessment.
“Then fire me. But I’m talking to the press this afternoon, either way. I’d prefer to do it with the backing of the team, but I’m not hiding from this any longer than I have to.”
“Brett’s right.”
The words would have surprised him anyway—he was so unused to hearing them—but coming from her, they meant even more. His heart stuttered in his chest as he, and everyone else, turned to see her striding toward the desk.
“I think it’s imperative that he speaks out as soon as possible about this.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve been fielding concerns from sponsors all morning. And did I miss the part where you added public relations manager to your credentials?” Jennifer asked, but the rebuke didn’t even slow Chelsea down. She was magnificent.
“Do you think you’re the only one who’s seen the backlash to this video on social media? The op-eds flooding blogs and newspapers since its release? If you let those sponsors cut ties over this, you’re dooming them to stand on the wrong side of this issue.”
She met everyone in the room�
�s eyes in turn. Well, everyone except him.
“Have you all watched the video?”
For the first time that morning, no one would look at him.
“Then you know it was blatantly filmed without Brett’s knowledge. There is a firestorm of support growing in his defense. In fact, my phone has also been ringing off the hook this morning—”—she sent a dark look toward Jennifer—“—from a whole host of charities who are interested in working directly with Brett, and by extension, the team, on raising awareness about the realities of revenge porn, cyber bullying, and consent. Sponsors who abandon the team over this are going to look foolish and short-sighted. It’ll seem like they have no idea of the reality young people, and young women in particular—those they are trying so desperately to attract to their products—actually have to live with.”
Brett could barely believe what she was saying. That she was standing up for him right now. After what had happened between them last night.
“One of the local women’s shelters has already expressed interest in having Brett speak about this experience, to raise awareness about the fallout of this sort of abuse, and to illustrate that no one is immune. I think it would be wise to do the press conference from there.”
“We always do our press conferences from—”
“I’m well aware of what we usually do, Jennifer. But I think the location change will keep this from seeming like it’s just business, because it’s not. What happened to Brett has happened to countless other people, and it is the sort of thing that can ruin lives. It would be a mistake for the Wolfpack Organization to make it seem like it’s anything less than that.”
There was a moment of shell-shocked silence around the room, and Brett used it to his advantage, getting to his feet. “That,” he said simply, referring to Chelsea’s entire plan. “I’m going to do that.”
She nodded at him. “I’ll set it up.”
He didn’t get a chance to thank her as Jennifer cloistered him away in a boardroom with the entire PR department and they hammered out the details of what he should, and shouldn’t, say in front of the microphone that afternoon.
Taking a Shot (Montana Wolfpack) Page 18