I couldn’t.
My world narrowed. The hotel room faded. The calls, the texts, the lawyer-speak—all gone. There was only her face in my head: the way she’d looked at me before she slipped out of that fundraiser closet, like she was already bracing for impact.
I stood up. Grabbed my jacket. My keys.
The rational part of me said this was a career-ending decision. That the team, the league, the sponsors—they’d all crucify me.
The rest of me didn’t care.
Didn’t matter.
I shoved the phone into my pocket, zipped my jacket, and walked out of the hotel room like I was walking onto a pitch. My heartbeat slowed, my vision tunneled.
This wasn’t PR. This wasn’t a storyline.
This was someone hurting her in public.
And I was done sitting still.
I turned the ignition, engine growling under my hands, and pointed the car toward the studio.
Whatever waited for me there, I’d deal with it.
But Ryder Blake wasn’t going to finish this segment thinking he’d won.
The studio looked sterile and smug—white lights, glass doors, modern art that tried too hard.
I didn’t slow down.
The receptionist started to say something, but I dropped my name like a weapon. “Kieren Walker. Stevensville.”
That alone opened doors. The rest I bulldozed open myself.
Someone shouted after me—security, maybe. I didn’t care. I used the tone athletes only pull out at press junkets when they’re done playing polite. “Where’s Blake?”
She stammered something. I caught the word “East wing,” and I moved.
The corridors blurred. My cleats weren’t even on, but my legs moved like I was mid-match. Muscle memory. Fury turned kinetic.
Outside the glass, I saw him.
Ryder Blake.
Still on-air. Still talking. Still smirking.
The cameras hadn’t cut yet. His mic light blinked red.
I hit the lobby just as the segment was ending. A producer saw me and swore. Another yelled into a headset, eyes wide. One guy grabbed a walkie and shouted for security.
Too late.
I pushed through the studio door hard enough it slammed into the wall. Inside, it was chaos: fluorescent lights buzzing, the chemical sting of too much coffee, people moving like ants under fire.
The sound of Blake’s voice filtered through the studio glass—sharp, smug, still spitting whatever garbage he thought made him clever.
He was being rolled off set in a chair, mic still clipped to his blazer. The producer tried to block me with a clipboard.
“Sir—this is a closed set?—”
