Tomboy (The Hartigans #3)(66)

She couldn’t count the number of domestic violence victims she’d seen come through the emergency room over the years. Some swore they’d slipped down the stairs, broken their arm, and gotten a black eye—or worse. Others didn’t say anything. The third group spoke up despite the threats made against them and their children. Some of them even got out. That Zach’s parents—just to score a payday—would make a mockery of those women and men who really had survived domestic violence made her sick to her stomach.

If his parents were willing to go public with this level of bullshit, they wouldn’t quit, not until they’d drained him of absolutely everything—money, belief in himself, hope. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let them do that to him. Zach deserved better. He deserved someone who would fight for him, not just use him.

Pivoting around, she faced the scrum of reporters, their eager faces hungry for a scoop. Everybody used everybody, that’s what he’d told her. But it wasn’t true. She’d fight for him.

“Zach’s parents took out loans in his name for millions, skimmed money from his accounts, and sucked him dry like a pair of vampires before leaving him holding the bag for it all,” she said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to remain calm. “That’s why he’s living in a house the team pays for, doesn’t have any furniture, and doesn’t have a car. Because all of the money he earns is going to pay off the millions of dollars of debt his parents ran up in his name.” The pure awfulness of what they’d done still astounded her—almost as much as the fact that somehow, some way, Zach acted as if he’d deserved that kind of treatment. “And he didn’t take his parents to court or turn them into the cops. Why? Because even though they did that to him, he still protected them. It’s what he does on the ice and off of it.”

They were staring at her slack-jawed by the time she finished. Her lungs were heaving, and that adrenaline rush that came with standing up for what was right, for who was right, was whooshing through her like an arctic blast—cold, clean, and clear. Zach might not understand at first—he’d probably be pissed as hell. But she’d explain that she was fighting for him, for what was right, and he’d understand. She was sure about it.

“Do you love him?” the male reporter asked.

Yeah, because a woman can’t be trusted to tell the truth if her heart is involved. “Why? Does that make me biased about his parents’ bullshit if I do?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “It just makes the story better.”

That dude was fast moving up the list of punchable people that Fallon had had to deal with in her life. She let out a deep breath, counted to ten, and looked the reporters dead-on because, this, they really needed to understand.

“This is more than just a story,” she said, using the same do-not-fuck-with-this-shit-anymore tone she employed when she was talking to someone brought back from an OD, praying that this time they’d listen. “It’s his life. Leave him alone and let him live it.”

And since there was nothing left to say after that, she turned back around and strode into the madness that was the St. Vincent’s emergency room when the skies were thunderous. Phone in hand, she was texting Zach the details about what had just happened when the call went out about multiple traumas headed their way from a multi-car pile-up. She hit send and shoved her phone in her locker and rushed out front to help.

…

As soon as Zach got back into the locker room after a killer practice that had left him ten pounds lighter from skating his ass off, he grabbed his phone. After Lucy’s phone call this morning, the notifications had been going off like crazy, and he’d turned it off. Fallon was going to be off work soon, though, so he swiped his thumb across the screen to power it up.

His phone started vibrating with a million incoming notifications right at the same time as Fallon appeared on the big-screen TV at the end of the locker room. She was in blue scrubs, her hair braided with the tail draped across her shoulder, and she was giving whoever was talking a glare that would shrivel most men’s balls. So all was normal, right up until what she was saying to the reporter penetrated his brain.

Parents stole from him.

He’s millions in debt.

They skimmed money.

The team pays for his house.

He can’t afford furniture or a car.

Those may have been the words she used, but it all translated in his head to “failure,” and “loser,” and “fool.” And with each one, he sank deeper and deeper into that dark place where he was alone and no one could touch him. Not his parents. Not his critics. Not Fallon. There wasn’t any anger or hurt or bitterness here. It was just acceptance that this was how the world worked. People betrayed and used each other.

You should have known better, Blackburn.

By the time the phone he was white-knuckling stopped vibrating from all of the delayed notifications, the interview on the TV was over. His secret, the one he’d been hiding from everyone, was out in the open because he’d been dumb enough to think that Fallon wouldn’t betray him.

Standing there in the middle of the locker room, his hair still damp with sweat, he looked around. None of the other players were talking, and no one was looking at him, either. It was the kind of heavy, uncomfortable silence that takes over a locker room after a player suffered a season-ending injury.