Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(22)

There’s nothing I can do about my deep voice, but I do my best to soften it.

I look at Devon, and he sticks his tongue out at me.

I huff out a laugh, because it helps.

I take a breath and walk to the podium.

You’ve got this, Jack. So what if you made mistakes early on in your career? You’ve given the best years of your life to this town. I wrestle with my nerves, stuffing them down inside a chest and wrapping a chain around them.

I speak. “What happened three days ago was an accident. I was leaving the stadium after a workout, actually backing up from my parking spot, and didn’t see the young boy on his scooter behind me. I backed into him and broke his arm and sprained his ankle. His prognosis is good.” I push the words out with force. “The truth is there’s no salacious story here. Accidents happen every day, and thankfully no one was more seriously injured. I’m grateful for that and plan to follow up with Timmy and his family.”

Some of them gape at me. Besides a five-second interview on the field when my adrenaline helps me power through a microphone in my face, this is the most I’ve said to the press since being drafted. Coach knows about my issue, and during press conferences after games, he lets me sit silent while he breaks down the game.

Another reporter jumps forward.

“Were you distracted when you hit him? Some witnesses say you were on your phone.”

My lips tighten. Witnesses, my ass. No one was there.

“Are you aware Timmy’s been offered money to sell his story? There are claims you yelled at him and refused to call the ambulance—”

“I can answer that,” comes a small voice from the back, and the entire place swivels to see Timmy in his wheelchair as his mom pushes him forward. The reporters dash to the back.

Shit.

I step back from the table and stalk through the throng to where he is. A male reporter jabs a mic in my face. “Did you know he was coming today, Jack?”

“No,” I mutter, edging around him.

Lawrence is calling for me to come back, but fuck that; I can’t let these reporters hound this poor kid.

I finally get to him and toss him the ball. He catches it, and my hand goes to his thin shoulder. He’s a skinny thing, hair buzzed short, wraparound black glasses. Wearing a number one bright-yellow Tigers jersey (mine), he looks up at me.

“Hey, little man. You don’t have to answer anything. These reporters can be hard to handle.”

He frowns at me. “I know you said I shouldn’t come, but Mama said she’d bring me, and it’s hard to tell me no when I nag.”

I glance at Laura.

She shrugs and smiles. “He begged all night. I guess he’s watched ESPN these past three days. He was worried about you and how they said you were probably drunk.”

Why would I be drunk leaving the stadium? No one even cares. They just assume.

Reporters are crowding us, and I send a glare at them. “Back off, will you? He’s just a kid.”

But Timmy likes the attention, because he’s already talking to John from ESPN, who’s managed to weasel in on the other side of his wheelchair.

“Timmy, tell me what happened.” He sticks a mic in his face.

Timmy gives John a look, his chin tilted up in a determined way. “Okay. Mr. Hawke did not yell at me, and whoever said that is a liar. He called the ambulance right away and even came with me because Mama didn’t know where I was. I took a bus to Nashville and rented one of those scooters and snuck past security into the stadium parking lot.”

“Are you a big Tigers fan?” John asks, darting a look at me. “A lot of people aren’t these days.”

I grit my teeth.

Timmy nods. “Jack sat with me while they reset my arm and put a cast on. He didn’t leave until midnight. And I am not selling a story, because there’s no story to tell.” He sweeps the reporters with an evil eye, and I bite back a grin.

Yet part of me had wondered if perhaps his mom was going to make something more of this. I couldn’t help but notice they don’t have much. Clean but old clothes, their address a small apartment in Daisy . . .

Daisy?

I freeze, recognizing the connection, but I let it go when Timmy keeps talking.

“Mr. Hawke is my favorite Tigers player, and I was hanging around the stadium hoping I’d see him. I get bullied at school, and I was sick of it, so I skipped school that day to see him. I waited for him to come out.” He grimaces. “Really, it’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not. Don’t say that,” I say, scowling. “I should have double-checked it was clear.”

“How serious are your injuries, Timmy?” a reporter asks, sending me a scathing glance.

I can’t win here.

“I’m fine! I go back to school Monday.” He grins. “I like the wheelchair, but I don’t really need it. Mama says it keeps me still.” Another grin. “I’m hard to manage.”

“Why did you come today, Timmy?” John asks, eyeing me. “Are you being paid any money?”

My temper spikes. Is he for real? I think my face must say what I’m thinking because John pales.

“To support my favorite team and player. What y’all say about him is just not true. He paid for my hospital bills and he . . . and he . . .”

“What?” John asks.