Page 115 of Hard to Hold

“Answer the phone, Rush.”

With a stab of my finger, I answer. “Finn.”

“What the fuck, man?” Now, I’m just pissed off.

“What the hell do you mean, what the fuck? It’s a snow job, Finn. Haskins is pissed that Liverpool is keeping me and is trying to sabotage my contract so—”

“She has a fucking black eye, McKenzie. She was in LA, Rush. How do you circle this square of public perception?” he shouts at the top of his lungs, frustration tinging every single syllable.

“She was here three weeks ago. I didn’t see her when she was and if I did, the paparazzi would have been showing photos of that. Besides, do you really think if I’d laid my hands on her three weeks ago the bruises would be that fucking fresh?” I shove up off the bed and pace down the hallway, the anger and disbelief eating me up. “And fuck you for even giving credit to Haskins and this article.”

“Well someone had to have done it.”

“It was Seth!” I yell.

“And how would you know that?”

“Because I do. Because other players have seen him strike her before. Because . . .” Even if I said because Rory saw it, it would hold no damn weight anyway. “Just fucking trust me.”

“Trust you? You need to fucking calm down.”

“No. As my fucking agent, you need to believe me. I didn’t have an affair with Esme. And I didn’t fucking hit her.”

“Rush—”

“Fuck this. Get me every interview you can. I’m going to bury the motherfucker.”

“No. What you’re not doing is going straight to the press. I need you to sit tight while I formulate a plan and figure out what the club is considering. Are you listening, Rush? Don’t do a single thing.”

“Yeah. I hear you.” But when I end the call, I’m not as convinced that sitting tight this time is what needs to be done. Sure, I listened the first time and while everything worked out in the end, my name was never cleared. And now this. This is more than my reputation and career. This calls on who I am as a man.

On my bloody character.

I’m not a coward who hits women.

Anger and disbelief like I’ve never known before owns and paralyzes every part of me.

I stand on the landing of the third story of Johnny’s house and simply stare out the window, hands braced against the railing, and head all over the fucking place.

“Rush.” Lennox’s voice breaks through to me. I turn to find her walking toward me with a mobile to one ear and her laptop in her other hand. She’s still in the shorts set she sleeps in and her hair is a wild mess atop her head, but she’s all business.

“I have a flight booked for you to Heathrow. You need to start packing, because it leaves in less than four hours and with LA traffic, it’ll be tight. I have people on the ground in London working on what’s going on with the Esme deal. Angles we can work to spin this and—”

“Finn told me I needed to sit tight.”

“Fuck Finn and his sit tight,” she says, pulling me by the arm back toward our wing of the house. “You need to be home right now so people can see you. The longer you’re out of sight, the easier it is for them to believe this bullshit. You need to hold a press conference the minute your feet are on the ground there.”

“To say what? How do I suddenly acknowledge this when I didn’t acknowledge the photo before? How do I—”

“Rory.”

I stop and stare at her as she starts opening the closets in my room and pulling suitcases out. “I—”

“Yes, Rush. You have to.”

And I know she’s right. I know more than anything right now, that he’s the only one who can set this straight.

“Lennox.” Her name is a resigned sigh and plea combined all into one. “I promised them,” I whisper. How do I betray my friend to save myself? How do I . . .