Marilyn pinches the bridge of her nose. When she looks up, her eyes are clear and focused. “What do you need from us?”
“Professional help,” I say simply. “The two of you together must know someone in every newsroom in the country. All we are asking for is to not talk about Ash. We’re making a run for the Cup. There’s other omega drama.” I turn specifically to Chantel. “Let Beckett be not a star for a little bit. His sponsorships are solid. Let him coast for the summer and take care of his omega.”
“Liam…”
“He’s not a rookie anymore. He doesn’t have tohustle. At least for a few months.”
She blows out a breath and sits back in the booth. I knew she’d be the hardest sell. She’s a shark, and I’m incredibly grateful for that. But this is about Ash’s mental health.
“C’mon Chantel. Give him a summer vacation and in the pre-season, we’ll have him rescue kittens out of trees or some shit.”
“That was a good stunt,” she concedes.
I let the two women take in the gravity of the situation. They’re both ballers and at the top of their games; they never pull punches or hesitate to go for a win. I just need them to see that this is not a game to play.
I glance at Marilyn. The steel in her eyes practically smacks me upside the head. “Her father?”
“Yeah.” What else is there to say about the worst part of it all?
“Does she need anything?” Marilyn asks. The steel is still there, but like most alphas, she’s got a gooey core at the center.
“Shit, I don’t know.”
“Therapy,” Estelle nudges me, dark humor tainting her voice.
“A nest.”
“A new bag. That thing she’s carrying has a hole in the bottom.”
“Her coat isn’t warm enough.”
“Nothing wrong with thrifting, but she needs clothes that fit.”
A thought drops into my head. “Can we get her on the team’s insurance?”
“Of course,” Marilyn says, like that’s a dumb question.
“Liam, she doesn’t even have ID,” Estelle pipes. “We were paying her under the table. Not even a driver’s license.”
“Hold up.” Marilyn stops us with a gesture and sits up straight. “Would she be open to a name change?”
I look at Estelle, and she shrugs. “What are you getting at?”
“If she doesn’t have a government ID, changing her name is a piece of cake. Cuts her right off from this.” Marilyn taps her nail on the police report. “We just need a birth certificate.”
“That’s genius, actually. I’ll have to talk to her about it.”
“I’ll get legal working on it right away. Attorney/client privilege is in play,” she says, letting me know that the secrecy would be tighter than an NDA.
Marilyn scoots over on the bench seat, which forces Chantel to slide out.
“Let me get back to the office and start working on all of this. Our plan is top of the line, mental health coverage too.”
Chantel points a finger at me. “You owe me two kittens and a lost puppy.”
“What if I raised you puppy yoga?” I say, and Chantel cocks her head. I paint a picture for her. “Becket. A room full of puppies. Downward facing dog in yoga pants.”
“Christ.” She throws up her hands. “I don’t need hockey butt and puppies in my head all day. I’m leaving.”
