Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(21)

“The vultures are circling,” Lawrence murmurs next to me as we push through the throng of cameras and reporters inside the press conference room, a place with a long table at the front, a row of microphones at each seat. The crowd parts as we walk in, and I keep my gaze straight ahead. I gave myself a good rousing pep talk in the locker room, and I’m feeling like, okay, maybe, just maybe, I can do this.

I take a seat in the middle, and Coach sits on one side of me, Lawrence on the other.

Devon rushes in the room and jogs to the front, giving me a fist bump. “Fear no more. The favorite is here.” He waves at an attractive reporter close to him. “Hey. Good to see you. Call me sometime.”

She blushes. Yeah, he’s probably tapped that.

“Devon,” I murmur. “You didn’t have to come. But great late entrance. Everyone’s looking.” I feign confidence I don’t have. Something I’ve been doing my whole life.

“My plan, of course.” He waggles his brows and tosses out a wide grin as he rubs his hand across his dark purple-tipped spiked hair. “Plus I look good on camera.”

He sits at the end, slouching down in his seat, and proceeds to give the room a lazy look, winking at anyone who meets his gaze.

Lawrence leans over, and I hear him hiss, “Stop that shit, or you’ll be paying me to fix your image next.”

“Nashville loves me, Lawrence,” he replies, his tone amused. “Get over it. I can do no wrong.”

“Give them time,” Lawrence mutters. “Fans are fickle.”

Coach takes the podium and gazes out at the mass of reporters and cameras. “Thank you for coming today. I’m sure you’re all anxious to hear from the team.” He shoots me a look.

A muscle in my jaw pops.

“First off, let me answer the first question I know you want to know. Jack Hawke’s toxicology is back, and there’s no evidence of alcohol or drugs in his system when the accident occurred. There are no plans or even a reason to suspend him from the team. The truth is we’re all behind Jack. We support him. He’s still the leader on the Tigers football team.” A long pause. “Now if you’d like to ask questions, Jack is ready to answer them. As I’m sure you’re aware, Jack hasn’t answered reporters’ personal questions in years, but he’s agreed to speak today.”

My heart pounds so hard it feels as if everyone in the room can hear it.

Then Aiden waltzes in the back of the room and leans against the wall, his eyes taking in the throng. He turns to talk to the Adidas rep who dropped me this week. I grimace. That’s right. Jack Hawke is no longer the face of Adidas. Not surprised they let me go; I’ve been waiting on this since Sophia’s book came out. I guess this week was the icing on the cake.

The door opens again, and my eyes flare. Timmy Caine, the kid I ran over, arrives in a wheelchair with his arm in a cast; his mom is right behind him. They ease inside and stand on the other side of Aiden.

He shouldn’t be in this mess. He’s just a boy.

I forget that as reporters surge toward me at the table, cameras flashing.

“Jack, have you been charged with assault in the accident?”

“Jack, are you aware the boy you ran over is only ten years old?”

Clearly, they haven’t noticed he’s here yet.

“Jack, over here. Are you aware that fans have started a petition to remove you from the team—”

“Jack, is it true Sophia Blaine is writing an article about you for Cosmo? She claims you forced her to have an abortion while you were dating.”

No. I didn’t. I swallow, my throat dry. I feel dizzy.

“Jack, why don’t you give interviews?”

All the voices are talking at once, rising over each other as the crowd stares at me, and I’m hot all over. I clench my hands under the table, praying to God no one notices that I want to hurl. I dig deep to keep my face composed. Cool. Be cool. Keep your voice low. Remain calm.

A young guy in jeans and an ESPN badge pushes ahead of the rest, and I recognize him as John, a talk show host, one of the big guns. “Jack, can you tell us exactly what happened?”

I nod, but my voice refuses to come. Inhaling four breaths, I practice my calming exercises—deep inhale, long exhale.

“Yo, catch this!” It’s Devon from the end of the table. He’s standing, holding a football I didn’t see him come in with.

Working on autopilot, I stand, and it’s instinct when I catch the ball.

“You can’t shut up when you’ve got that ball. Always telling us what to do.” He grins, and I paste one on my face too. I can’t deny the way the ball feels in my hands, leather tight in my grip. Comfort. Home.

His eyes glint with understanding, and he takes his seat, back to his slouch.

So here I am, standing in front of my critics—and the kid I hit—holding what I treasure.

You have to talk to them.

You have to be relatable.

The room is hot, and my face feels red as I turn toward the reporters.

Everyone in the place is staring, waiting, some frowning and scribbling as they write on pads, probably jotting down what an idiot I am. They don’t see the awkwardness underneath, the fear of having people I don’t know up in my face.

My hands clench the ball as I clear my throat. The entire room freezes, anticipating. “Thank you for coming.”