“Devon,” I murmur. “You didn’t have to come. But great late entrance. Everyone’s looking.” I feign confidence I don’t have. Something I’ve been doing my whole life.

“My plan, of course.” He waggles his brows and tosses out a wide grin as he rubs his hand across his dark purple-tipped spiked hair. “Plus I look good on camera.”

He sits at the end, slouching down in his seat, and proceeds to give the room a lazy look, winking at anyone who meets his gaze.

Lawrence leans over, and I hear him hiss, “Stop that shit, or you’ll be paying me to fix your image next.”

“Nashville loves me, Lawrence,” he replies, his tone amused. “Get over it. I can do no wrong.”

“Give them time,” Lawrence mutters. “Fans are fickle.”

Coach takes the podium and gazes out at the mass of reporters and cameras. “Thank you for coming today. I’m sure you’re all anxious to hear from the team.” He shoots me a look.

A muscle in my jaw pops.

“First off, let me answer the first question I know you want to know. Jack Hawke’s toxicology is back, and there’s no evidence of alcohol or drugs in his system when the accident occurred. There are no plans or even a reason to suspend him from the team. The truth is we’re all behind Jack. We support him. He’s still the leader on the Tigers football team.” A long pause. “Now if you’d like to ask questions, Jack is ready to answer them. As I’m sure you’re aware, Jack hasn’t answered reporters’ personal questions in years, but he’s agreed to speak today.”

My heart pounds so hard it feels as if everyone in the room can hear it.

Then Aiden waltzes in the back of the room and leans against the wall, his eyes taking in the throng. He turns to talk to the Adidas rep who dropped me this week. I grimace. That’s right. Jack Hawke is no longer the face of Adidas. Not surprised they let me go; I’ve been waiting on this since Sophia’s book came out. I guess this week was the icing on the cake.

The door opens again, and my eyes flare. Timmy Caine, the kid I ran over, arrives in a wheelchair with his arm in a cast; his mom is right behind him. They ease inside and stand on the other side of Aiden.

He shouldn’t be in this mess. He’s just a boy.

I forget that as reporters surge toward me at the table, cameras flashing.

“Jack, have you been charged with assault in the accident?”

“Jack, are you aware the boy you ran over is only ten years old?”

Clearly, they haven’t noticed he’s here yet.

“Jack, over here. Are you aware that fans have started a petition to remove you from the team—”

“Jack, is it true Sophia Blaine is writing an article about you for Cosmo? She claims you forced her to have an abortion while you were dating.”

No. I didn’t. I swallow, my throat dry. I feel dizzy.

“Jack, why don’t you give interviews?”

All the voices are talking at once, rising over each other as the crowd stares at me, and I’m hot all over. I clench my hands under the table, praying to God no one notices that I want to hurl. I dig deep to keep my face composed. Cool. Be cool. Keep your voice low. Remain calm.

A young guy in jeans and an ESPN badge pushes ahead of the rest, and I recognize him as John, a talk show host, one of the big guns. “Jack, can you tell us exactly what happened?”

I nod, but my voice refuses to come. Inhaling four breaths, I practice my calming exercises—deep inhale, long exhale.

“Yo, catch this!” It’s Devon from the end of the table. He’s standing, holding a football I didn’t see him come in with.

Working on autopilot, I stand, and it’s instinct when I catch the ball.

“You can’t shut up when you’ve got that ball. Always telling us what to do.” He grins, and I paste one on my face too. I can’t deny the way the ball feels in my hands, leather tight in my grip. Comfort. Home.

His eyes glint with understanding, and he takes his seat, back to his slouch.

So here I am, standing in front of my critics—and the kid I hit—holding what I treasure.

You have to talk to them.

You have to be relatable.

The room is hot, and my face feels red as I turn toward the reporters.

Everyone in the place is staring, waiting, some frowning and scribbling as they write on pads, probably jotting down what an idiot I am. They don’t see the awkwardness underneath, the fear of having people I don’t know up in my face.

My hands clench the ball as I clear my throat. The entire room freezes, anticipating. “Thank you for coming.”

There’s nothing I can do about my deep voice, but I do my best to soften it.

I look at Devon, and he sticks his tongue out at me.

I huff out a laugh, because it helps.

I take a breath and walk to the podium.

You’ve got this, Jack. So what if you made mistakes early on in your career? You’ve given the best years of your life to this town. I wrestle with my nerves, stuffing them down inside a chest and wrapping a chain around them.

I speak. “What happened three days ago was an accident. I was leaving the stadium after a workout, actually backing up from my parking spot, and didn’t see the young boy on his scooter behind me. I backed into him and broke his arm and sprained his ankle. His prognosis is good.” I push the words out with force. “The truth is there’s no salacious story here. Accidents happen every day, and thankfully no one was more seriously injured. I’m grateful for that and plan to follow up with Timmy and his family.”

Some of them gape at me. Besides a five-second interview on the field when my adrenaline helps me power through a microphone in my face, this is the most I’ve said to the press since being drafted. Coach knows about my issue, and during press conferences after games, he lets me sit silent while he breaks down the game.

Another reporter jumps forward.

“Were you distracted when you hit him? Some witnesses say you were on your phone.”

My lips tighten. Witnesses, my ass. No one was there.

“Are you aware Timmy’s been offered money to sell his story? There are claims you yelled at him and refused to call the ambulance—”

“I can answer that,” comes a small voice from the back, and the entire place swivels to see Timmy in his wheelchair as his mom pushes him forward. The reporters dash to the back.

Shit.

I step back from the table and stalk through the throng to where he is. A male reporter jabs a mic in my face. “Did you know he was coming today, Jack?”

“No,” I mutter, edging around him.

Lawrence is calling for me to come back, but fuck that; I can’t let these reporters hound this poor kid.

I finally get to him and toss him the ball. He catches it, and my hand goes to his thin shoulder. He’s a skinny thing, hair buzzed short, wraparound black glasses. Wearing a number one bright-yellow Tigers jersey (mine), he looks up at me.

“Hey, little man. You don’t have to answer anything. These reporters can be hard to handle.”

He frowns at me. “I know you said I shouldn’t come, but Mama said she’d bring me, and it’s hard to tell me no when I nag.”

I glance at Laura.

She shrugs and smiles. “He begged all night. I guess he’s watched ESPN these past three days. He was worried about you and how they said you were probably drunk.”

Why would I be drunk leaving the stadium? No one even cares. They just assume.

Reporters are crowding us, and I send a glare at them. “Back off, will you? He’s just a kid.”

But Timmy likes the attention, because he’s already talking to John from ESPN, who’s managed to weasel in on the other side of his wheelchair.

“Timmy, tell me what happened.” He sticks a mic in his face.

Timmy gives John a look, his chin tilted up in a determined way. “Okay. Mr. Hawke did not yell at me, and whoever said that is a liar. He called the ambulance right away and even came with me because Mama didn’t know where I was. I took a bus to Nashville and rented one of those scooters and snuck past security into the stadium parking lot.”

“Are you a big Tigers fan?” John asks, darting a look at me. “A lot of people aren’t these days.”

I grit my teeth.

Timmy nods. “Jack sat with me while they reset my arm and put a cast on. He didn’t leave until midnight. And I am not selling a story, because there’s no story to tell.” He sweeps the reporters with an evil eye, and I bite back a grin.

Yet part of me had wondered if perhaps his mom was going to make something more of this. I couldn’t help but notice they don’t have much. Clean but old clothes, their address a small apartment in Daisy . . .

Daisy?

I freeze, recognizing the connection, but I let it go when Timmy keeps talking.

“Mr. Hawke is my favorite Tigers player, and I was hanging around the stadium hoping I’d see him. I get bullied at school, and I was sick of it, so I skipped school that day to see him. I waited for him to come out.” He grimaces. “Really, it’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not. Don’t say that,” I say, scowling. “I should have double-checked it was clear.”

“How serious are your injuries, Timmy?” a reporter asks, sending me a scathing glance.