“No,” I said, succinctly. I let it sit for a moment. “People watch me, and it matters. I don’t get to choose what a kid sees,it’s up to their parents. I get to choose what I do next, and that’s where I need to focus.”
Order frayed as hands extended into the air, desperately hoping they’d be called on next.
“There are reports you’ve been seen with someone connected to the anger management program outside regularly scheduled group sessions,” a man in a cheap brown suit said from the third row. “Any comment?”
I kept my eyes on the red dot and allowed the room to feel the silence.
I was stunned by his question. The nerve of it.
Alex slid in, slick as always. “We’re here to address the suspension of this player and the League’s commitment to the process.”
Thisplayer? Is that all I was in his eyes?
Brown suit reporter didn’t blink. “So that’s a yes?”
Asshole.
The room waited, but I didn’t give them Blair’s name.
I shook my head. “I’m in compliance with the program’s rules. I show up where I’m told and I do the work. That’s my answer to your question.”
The reporter scowled. “You’re dodging.”
I glared at him. “I’m answering.”
Luckily for me, a national anchor asked a question from the riser and distracted everyone.
“How much money do you stand to lose?” he asked. “I mean, if partners decide to walk?”
I pictured the stack on my agent’s desk. Sponsorships. Brand endorsements.
It can all morph into silence after one nightmare press conference.
“Partners expect better,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “And so do I.”
Brown suit piped up again. “Break down the suspension hit for us. Fans don’t really know the details of this math. Give us numbers.”
I wanted to sigh. To roll my eyes. Or to pick up my chair.
Alex nudged me with his shoulder as the man in the brown suit waited for an answer.
“At my salary,” I said, locking eyes with the reporter, “a first-game suspension costs about fifty thousand per game, and if it’s a repeat issue, it’ll cost about a hundred per game. There’s a number.”
The reporter nodded and wrote in his pad as he did math in his head. Reporters like him knew full well the cost of a nine percent hit on a roster.
A tabloid writer leaned forward with eager eyes. “You looked thrilled when you were on top of Mercer during the fight. The grin on your face; are you sure this isn’t who you are?”
I thought of the gravel parking lot. Blair’s mouth as it shaped my name.
Alex’s pen stopped, and he glanced over at me with fear in his eyes. I’d never seen this expression on his face before.
Heat climbed at my neck as the old pull pushed at my hands. It wanted the mic ripped off its stem and the logo wall creased in half.
Hands open, I reminded myself.No fists.
“I’m sure it’s not who I am,” I said, forcing a neutral look on my face.
The tabloid writer raised one eyebrow. “Mr. Mitchell, do you expect us to believe you flipped the switch already?”
