Page 11 of Ice Wolf
Jonathan muttered under his breath as the temperature in the room grew chilly. “Why don’t we start over. Saint, what you’re telling us is that you protected a woman from getting assaulted. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, we can work with that, spin it in the press,” he stated while looking at the coach who had his palms pressed against his desk, staring down at the broken pieces. “Now, what about this nonsense regarding you being some werewolf?”
Both Carmine and Jonathan laughed.
Coach Cavanaugh didn’t.
“Werewolves don’t exist.” At least I was being truthful.
Carmine snorted and pulled a mint from his pocket. It was what some people called a nervous tic. I knew the action was all about gaining leverage. A secret in handling his cases he’d mentioned the single time I’d seen him intoxicated.
“Maybe not, son, but the video tells otherwise. Have you seen it?”
“To be honest with you, I haven’t. Sounded pretty stupid to me.” I hadn’t watched it. Maybe I hadn’t wanted to see my more beastly side in action.
“Show him the goddamn video,” the coach snapped.
Jonathan shook his head while sliding his finger across the iPad he was holding. After a few seconds, he handed it to me.
The sound was bad enough. A single shriek by the girl I’d saved, a sharp cry of agony from the asshole who’d had his hands all over her, and a roar, or more like a deep-throated growl. That was maybe two seconds before the video went blurry. I narrowed my eyes, even holding my breath as I watched.
Either the videographer’s hands were shaking, or the movements were in hyper speed.
A little of both.
Before the video even ended, I handed Jonathan his iPad. “You can’t really tell what happened. Looks heavily edited.” What the hell did I know about editing some video? Nothing.
“He’s right. The video could easily have been edited,” Carmine said, although I heard the skepticism in his voice.
“That might not matter.” Coach Cavanaugh finally turned to face me. “Half the teams want you tossed off, let alone what other coaches have said during the barrage of phone calls I received this morning.”
“Why the hell do they want me off the team? I won the game for us two nights ago and two nights before that.”
“That’s the thing, Saint,” Jonathan said, concern in his eyes. “If there’s any truth to this, which is obviously a load of crap, they’re worried you have abnormal… capabilities.”
“Such as?” I snorted out.
“Strength. Agility. Endurance. That could help you win a game.”
And rip a man’s head off. I could tell what Jonathan was getting at. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“Perceptions, Masters,” the coach snarled. “There’s another thing. Your sponsors are nervous.”
“Why?”
“It’s called scandal and lawsuits. They’re threatening to pull out. I don’t need to tell you what that will mean not only to your career but to your bank account.”
“They can’t fucking do that!” Now I was angry. I’d worked hard to get every single sponsor. Reebok and Pepsi, Fan Duel and freaking Heinz ketchup. There was even talk about putting my face on a goddamn Wheaties box. The fucking pipsqueak from the bar wasn’t going to take it all away from me.
Rage tore through me and every muscle tensed. Oh, fuck, no. This couldn’t happen right now. I’d need to find a way to shift the aggression before it was too late. Fuck. Why had thishappened twice in a couple of days? I’d always been able to control my mood and what occurred when I didn’t.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I closed my eyes, trying to think of something to say. What the hell could be said? They certainly didn’t want to hear the truth any more than I wanted to toss it out into the public. I was no fool. Only I hadn’t used some superhuman abilities to get where I was in my career. That had been blood, sweat, tears, and two concussions. I deserved to be where I was. No one was going to fucking take that away from me.
No one.
