Chapter Twenty-two – Crew
The handlers move like they’ve done this a thousand times—one hand on my back, one hand gesturing down the corridor, murmuring things I don’t bother to hear. The hallway smells of hairspray, coffee, and nerves. Every surface gleams. I can see my reflection in the polished floor: a suit that doesn’t feel like mine, a face that looks older than the man who left Coral Bell Cove yesterday.
A reporter in the front row raises his hand. “Crew, there’s been a lot of speculation about your time away. What would you say to fans who worry about your focus?”
My cue card answer waits in the folder before me. I don’t look at it. “I’d tell them focus never left. It just… learned different targets.”
Laughter ripples. Harris’s smile tightens.
Another reporter. “You’ve had a lot of media attention around personal relationships. Can you comment on how that’s impacted your career?”
Harris leans toward his mic. “We’d like to keep today about football—”
“No,” I say quietly, and the word cuts through the room like feedback. “It’s fair.”
I look at the cameras. “Distractions happen when people forget you’re human. I haven’t.”
The room stills. Harris’s knee presses into mine under the table—his silentshut up.
I give them the smile they want. “I’m grateful to the team, the sponsors, the fans.” My voice sounds even, calm. “I’m looking forward to the season.”
Flashbulbs strobe. Questions pile. I answer each one the way a trained man does—measured, polite, every syllable a leash. Inside, my pulse drums against my ribs, steady, furious.
The last question comes from a woman in the back. “You’ve spoken about mentorship and second chances. Is there anyone you’d like to thank personally?”
Bailey’s name sits on my tongue like a live wire.
I swallow it. “Too many to list,” I say instead.
Applause again. Harris stands. The event dissolves into handshakes and photo ops. I shake them because that’s the choreography. Cameras flash. Someone claps me on the shoulder. I let them.
The lights dim. The crowd disperses. The door to backstage closes, and the air finally tastes like oxygen again.
David exhales beside me. “That went well.”
I turn to him slowly. “Did it?”
“Better than it could have. You stayed on message. Sponsors are already happy.”
“Glad to make the puppeteers proud.”
He flinches. “Crew—”
Harris walks in, phone to his ear, voice smooth. “Yes, it was perfect. Yes, he was perfect. We’ll send the reel to marketing in—” He hangs up and smiles at me. “You handled yourself beautifully.”
“I lied for you,” I say.
He shrugs. “You lied for yourself. For your career.”
“No,” I correct, voice quiet. “For your comfort.”
The room temperature drops by a degree. David shifts uneasily.
Harris pockets his phone. “You think you can burn this machine down and still walk away clean? You’re welcome to try. But remember—public sympathy is a fickle thing.”
“I don’t need sympathy.”
He steps closer. “Then what do you need?”
