Page 2 of Hard to Hold

Fuck.

“Does Helen know?” I ask cryptically.

Archibald gives a quick shake of his head, his eyes telling me of course she doesn’t. How could he ever explain that he’s trading one son for what he’s always claimed was another?

The smile I give him is forced at best, but what the fuck does he expect? I’m about to be thrown to the wolves.

Wolves who are after blood and being led to the wrong scent.

“We could go around the block again if need be,” the driver says.

“It’s my home.” My chuckle lacks amusement. “They’ll still be here regardless.”

“How about I ease the car forward until they get out of the way? Then we’ll be able to get through the gate so you don’t have to get out and deal with them,” he offers.

“There’s no parting that crowd,” I murmur as another knock on the window sounds beside my ear. “Besides, I won’t be here for long. I have to pack and then get going.”

“You could stay with us, you know,” Archibald murmurs. “No one would question it.”

“No thanks.” But they might question it. Right now, he’s just a man beside me escorting me home, trying to help keep the peace. Anything more than that and people might take a second look.

“Just until this all dies down,” he says.

“Do you really think that’s the best idea?” I ask with more bite than intended before turning to face him. It’s the first time I’ve let him see the exhaustion in my eyes, and the first hint of the worry wearing me down that I’ve kept hidden from everyone else. “If people look too closely, they might see something different than you want them to.” I take a deep breath and prepare myself. “Here goes nothing.”

Without another word, I grab my bag and push open the door.

The sound is deafening.

The flashes are blinding.

Sure, I’m used to them, but not like this. Not with this intensity. Not after being accused of screwing my teammate’s wife.

“Rush, is it true?”

Click. Click. Click.

“How long have you been seeing Esme?”

Click. Click. Click.

“Are you going to be transferred because of this . . .”

Click. Click. Click.

“A comment please, Rush.”

Their cameras bump my shoulders as I fight my way through them, my name a symphony of strident sounds on their lips. One question after another, “No comment,” a repeat on mine, as I obey the gagging order the management team put into effect. All the sounds—their questions, my name, the clicks—fade to white noise around me.

They push and prod and belittle.

They make me feel like I did when I was a kid.

They make me remember the childhood I escaped from.

They bring back the shame I thought I’d left behind.

I reach the pedestrian gate to my yard, but there is one reporter standing in front of it. She’s the first whose gaze I meet and actually acknowledge.