"Still hiding behind security, Clay?"
The voice hits me like a crosscheck from behind. Familiar in the worst way. I stop, keys dangling from my hand.
Kyle Ericsson stands in the shadows, camera hanging around his neck. Older, greasier, but those same beady eyes that followed me through middle school hallways.
"Private property, Ericsson. Get the fuck out."
"Public sidewalk." He gestures to where he stands, just beyond the property line. "Still know the rules, eh? Just like in school."
My jaw tightens. I should walk away. Get in my car and drive. But my feet stay planted.
"Nothing to say?" His smile spreads, showing yellowed teeth. "The big NHL star too good to talk to old friends now?"
"We were never friends."
"No?" He cocks his head. "Guess I'm more friends with your girlfriend then. The fat one back there with the nice ass. PR chick, right? Bet she's good with her mouth?—"
My vision goes red, and I move before I think. Three steps and I've got his collar bunched in my fist, his back against the concrete wall. The rage is instant, burning through my veins like liquid fire, the same feeling I get before dropping gloves on the ice. Every muscle in my body tenses, ready to do damage.
"Don't you fucking talk about her, Ericsson. Her name shouldn't be in your filthy mouth," I snarl, my voice dropping to that dangerous quiet that teammates know means I'm seconds fromlosing it completely. I can feel my knuckles turning white against his shirt collar, the fabric straining under my grip.
Kyle's eyes widen, fear flashing before his lips curl into that same smirk I remember from years ago, when he'd corner smaller kids. "There it is. The real Sebastian Clay. Not so polished now, huh? Big tough hockey player can't control himself."
Camera flashes explode around us in rapid succession, blinding white light coming from all directions. Not just Kyle's—others hiding in the shadows, between parked cars, behind concrete pillars. The setup hits me too late, the strategic placement of photographers becoming painfully obvious. This wasn't a chance encounter. This was a carefully orchestrated ambush.
Fuck.
I release him immediately, stepping back, but the damage is done. The photos are already being taken, digital evidence of my mistake already making its way to every sports blog and tabloid in the country. I can almost hear my agent's phone starting to ring.
"Got what I needed." Kyle straightens his shirt, grinning. "Still the same pathetic boy with anger issues. Some things never change."
Mad appears beside me, her face pale. "Sebastian, your car. Now."
Kyle's eyes sweep over her, lingering. "Nice seeing you again, sweetheart."
Her hand finds my arm, fingers digging in. "Don't. He's not worth it."
I let her pull me away, my blood still roaring in my ears. The photos are already being uploaded, already spinning the narrative. Bold words being tapped out on keyboards right now.
Sebastian Clay, attacks innocent photographer.
Kyle fucking wins again.
Anya, also known as our PR Queen and nightmare in human form, paces her office the next morning, heels clicking sharply against hardwood. "Thirty million in endorsements almost gone in one goddamn punch."
"I didn't punch anyone," I say for the tenth time.
"You grabbed him by the throat?—"
"The collar."
"The photos make it look like you're about to murder him." She slaps a tablet down in front of me, and scrolls. Headlines flash across the screen:
"NHL STAR'S VIOLENT OUTBURST"
"CLAY ATTACKS PHOTOGRAPHER"
"ANGER MANAGEMENT ISSUES SURFACE"
