Brodie scratches his nose. ‘The reporter in question made comments about my family that—’
‘So, provocation justifies violence? Interesting philosophy for a team captain.’
That’s it. I rise, glass clinking as I set it on the side table.
‘Mr Pembroke, fascinating line of questioning. Reminds me of your piece on women’s football last month. Equally nuanced and not at all full of ill-informed contempt.’
Pembroke’s head swivels toward me. ‘Miss Harrington. Didn’t realise you were moderating tonight. Does your father know you’re here?’
‘Does your wife?’ I smile. ‘I’m sure she worries. It can’t be easy, you attending a whisky event after you’ve spoken so openly about your recovery.’
His face drains of colour.
See, that’s the perk of preparing yourself. I’m a Harrington. I was bred to excel, to win. But I’m also a young woman and older guys never take me seriously, so of course I do my fucking homework. Research. Basic due diligence.
When they go low, I’m not going high. I’m already down there, waiting for them with my fists out.
I step into the circle, positioning myself between Brodie and the journalist. ‘Since we’re discussing integrity, let’s talk about yours. Your editor might be interested in how you’re pursuing a vendetta against a player who refused to give you an exclusive last year.’
His face flushes. ‘That’s absurd.’
‘Is it?’ I smile again. ‘Because I’ve read the email chain, and it’s petty.’
A murmur ripples through the audience. Pembroke’s mouth opens, then closes. Brodie pins me with that dark, shuttered stare. I can’t tell if he’s about to thank me or rip me a new one for stepping in. I’d take either.
I’m doing it because it’s my job. Or because I can’t stand watching vultures pick him apart like he’s too broken to be worth anything.
That’s far from the truth.
I turn to the room, voice warming again. ‘Now, I believe we were discussing resilience and second chances? Mr Campbell, as someone who’s rebuilt after injury, what advice would you give to athletes facing setbacks?’
The master distiller seizes the lifeline gratefully, launching into a story about his career-ending knee injury. I catch Brodie’s eye, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Not quite a smile, but close.
Pembroke slumps back, defeated. I remain standing, a guard in stilettos, letting him know I’m ready for round two if he so much as coughs in the wrong direction.
The conversation flows back to safer waters. Ten minutes later, when the formal portion ends and guests mingle with glasses refilled, I feel Brodie’s hand on my lower back.
‘You didn’t need to do that,’ he says, his breath warm and private against my ear.
I turn, finding his face closer than expected. ‘Yes, I did. He was being a prick.’
‘I could’ve handled it.’
‘By knocking his teeth out? Because your right hand was locked into a fist so tight I thought you’d crush that poor tumbler.’ I keep my voice light, but my heartbeat pounds loud enough to feel it in my teeth.
He narrows his eyes. ‘You researched that twat?’
‘I research everyone who might be a threat to my clients.’
‘Including me?’ There’s no distance in the way he looks at me. No armour.
‘Especially to you.’
‘What you said back there,’ he continues after a moment. ‘About Pembroke. Was it true?’
‘Every word. He’s had it out for you since you told him to piss off last season.’
‘I’d forgotten about that,’ Brodie says.
