Page 20 of Hot Damn
With the click of the lock, the suite seems to be sucked bare of all the fun of the last sixty minutes. Beckett is an indomitable life-force, his presence filling the space with heavy tension. It doesn’t quite feel menacing and even though I want to leave, I stand in place and wait for him to acknowledge me.
He gave me a chin lift on arrival but I had to introduced myself to Noah and Mikel. The hi I sent Beckett’s way was ignored in favor of conversing with his teammates.
I can’t decide if I should break the tension between us or let him suffer.
“Coach said you wanted to talk to me.”
His words pull my gaze off my laptop screen. “I. Yes.” I lick my lips, swallow in spite of my tight throat. “I wanted to check in with you and Whitney. See if you were both okay after last night.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you want to check on us.”
His question confuses me. “Because you were both sent into a situation you weren’t prepared for?”
“And? What’s it to you how we are?”
Jesus. This guy isn’t giving me any slack. I push to my feet. “Well. First, I was genuinely concerned for you both and wondered if I could offer help with anything. Second, I hate that one man can blacken my chosen career with his behavior and I want to assure you we’re not all the same. And third, I was involved in the situation and it’s the right thing to do to follow up with you, check you’re both doing okay.”
“We’re fine. Is that all? I’ve got stuff to do before Whit gets home from school.”
“No. It’s not all.” I take a step closer. “I want to warn you that it’s likely other reporters are going to want to know about Whitney’s mom.”
“Other reporters oryou?” he sneers.
“I’m not interested in her mom, but I can guarantee others won’t feel the same way, Draper in particular. Especially when neither of you mentioned her last night. I’d like to add more interviews to?—”
“No!”
“Whoa.” I put up a hand. “Let me explain a little before you bite my head off.”
Beckett crosses his arms making his biceps bulge bigger. “Fine. Explain. Not that my answer will be any different.”
I’m not a violent person but the urge to shove him into a chair and make him listen steals through me like the cold of the arena sinking in. To the bone.
Matching his cross-armed stance I say, “Look. I get you don’t like me. I even get you have reasons in spite of them not really being my fault.But, I think you need to prepare yourself for more questions and I’d hoped I could help you divert them, possibly avoid them altogether.”
“The only thing you’ve helped do is put my daughter’s face all over the internet and TV.” His words are a growl through clenched teeth.
“Yes, I’ll grant you that, but I did it without hiding outside your house or in front of her school, without harassing her at a local restaurant or in her own driveway.” I suck in a breath and try to curb my anger. The whole time I speak, my voice rises in volume, and like my stance on violence, I’m generally not a yeller.
“Okay. I see thatmaybeyou were trying to help us.”
“Trying! I did help you, you idiot!” Tossing up my hands I spin around. “You know what, screw it. I rescind my offer to help more.”
“What’s in it for you?”
His question has me turning back around, a frown pulling at my brow and mouth. “In it for me? Nothing. What could I possibly gain from helping you other than being nice?”
“Ah, I see, you’re a do-gooder. I don’t need one of those. Got my gut full of them when I was a teenager.”
His words remind me of something else I wanted to warn him about. “You were sixteen when Whitney was born.”
Beckett takes a half step back, his fists now clenching at his sides. “And?”
“I think that will be a big topic the press will want to dig into as well as her mother.”
