Page 6

Chapter six

~ROWAN~

The studio buzzes with energy, and people with headsets walk around like the market just crashed. I stand in a corner, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, simmering in my own damn fury. Cameras flash, crew members shout directives, and the whole place feels like a goddamn circus. And I’m here because of her.

Blackmailed. The word churns in my stomach like poison. No one has ever had the nerve to pull that on me, let alone someone like her. I want to hate her for it, but there’s this nagging part of me that absolutely admires her audacity. She forced me into this mess, and now she’s smiling like she’s won the lottery.

I push off the wall and run a hand through my hair, pausing when I feel the sticky hairspray the hairdresser sprayed in it. Fucking hell. I wipe my hand on my pants with a frown.

I need to show her this is a one-time deal. She doesn’t get to use this leverage on me again.

I look up, my eyes finding her like a magnet. As I watch her, I notice how the interviewer leans in, hanging on her every word. The way she tosses her head back when she laughs, the way the man’s eyes sparkle with mischief. Damn it, I shouldn’t care. But the jealousy creeps in, gnawing at me. I step back, forcing my eyes away from her, but it’s no use. Why the hell do I care? First Davidson, now this loser.

The makeup artist who’s been tailing me for the past fifteen minutes looks at me, a big fluffy brush in her hand and something round in the other. Her eyes are hopeful, but as they meet mine, the hope turns into regret before she hurries away. I’m not usually this sour and grumpy. I hate this version of myself, but how the fuck am I supposed to act when it’s eight in the morning, I have half a can of hairspray in my hair, I’m missing my workout, and I was blackmailed to come here by the new PR agent.

There’s something about her, something that makes me want to claw my way through the bullshit and show her exactly who she’s messing with.

“Mr. DiMarco, we’re ready for you!” a producer barks, pulling me from my thoughts. I straighten, my jaw clenching as I head toward the set.

“Please welcome the captain of the LA Panthers, Rowan DiMarco! We’re so excited to have you here today.” The interviewer flashes a grin that’s too bright, too eager.

“Thank you. I’m thrilled to be here,” I mutter, plastering on a fake smile.

As the camera rolls, he dives right in. The first questions are mundane, their purpose being to ease me into it. I’ve done more than enough interviews to know the drill by now. After a few meaningless ones, he finally gets to the point.

“With preseason just around the corner, how do you feel about the team’s chances this year?”

“The chances of breaking bones or the chances of us winning?” I ask, leaning back. “Cause they’re about the same.”

The interviewer barks a laugh and leans forward to nudge my shoulder. I keep the small smile plastered on to keep from returning the favor…with way more force.

“Last season, you faced quite a few challenges,” he continues after catching his breath. “There were a few scandals that got out. How did those experiences shape your leadership style?”

“Leadership is about adapting and pushing your team to be better,” I say, meeting his gaze. “It’s about knowing when to support and when to demand more. It’s not about bossing people around; it’s about being the pillar your team needs, the brother, the friend. It’s about family.”

The interviewer nods, clearly pleased, and I can feel the facade holding. “Speaking of family,” he starts, and I tense. Don’t. Don’t fucking say it. “Does it hurt that you never got the chance to see your parents at any of your NHL games?”

Shit.

And just like that, the carefully crafted professionalism shatters. I feel the heat rise in my chest, fury boiling over.

“That’s a very personal question,” I snap, my voice low and dangerous. What does he expect me to say? That it keeps me up at night?

“I didn’t mean…” The interviewer seems taken aback, the shock written all over his face. “People have simply wondered why your parents chose not to support you like other players’ families do. Do you bear any guilt since they—”

“I’m not here to discuss my family drama, and I certainly won’t give you the satisfaction of a soundbite for your tabloids,” I cut him off. “I’m here to talk about hockey.”

“Of course not. I apologize.” He hesitates, clearly weighing his next move. He glances over at the producer, and I see Livia facepalm herself out of the corner of my eye.

The interview drags on, but each question feels like a punch in the gut, reopening wounds I thought were buried. I keep it vague and keep my answers professional, but the fury is there, ready to explode.

“Moving forward, what are your personal goals for the upcoming season?”

I take a breath, trying to rein in the anger coursing through me.

“Win,” I deadpan.

“Right, of course, uh.” The man gives me a shaky laugh as he glances down at his notepad.

“Is that all?” I ask. I need to get out of here. This is precisely why I don’t do interviews. When it’s a post-game one, it’s always about the game. No one is asking me about my family. That’s why these are the only kinds of interviews I do. Not this tabloid shit.

The moment the camera cuts, I bolt off the set, my pulse racing, adrenaline coursing through me.

Five minutes later, I storm out of the studio into the hallways leading to the garages, adrenaline surging through my veins like wildfire. The last thing I need is another lecture from Livia, but there she is, arms crossed, looking like she’s ready for a fight.

“Rowan,” she calls, her voice a sharp edge cutting through my anger.

“Not now.” I push past her, but she steps in front of me, blocking my path.

“Actually, it is now,” she says, her tone uncompromising.

I stop, grinding my teeth. “Want to give me a lecture on how I should’ve handled that shitshow? Save it.”

“Do you think I wanted you to lose it in there? That was bad for both of us!” she retorts, her eyes flashing.

I let out a humorless laugh. “You mean bad for you.”

“What the hell happened in there, Rowan?” she asks, desperation in her voice.

“What happened is what always happens during those interviews,” I say, half-turned toward her. “And if you’re as good as you pretend to be, you would’ve done your fucking research and realized that dragging me here is a bad idea.”

“Rowan, I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable,” she starts, but I twist my body toward her, silencing her for a moment.

“You blackmailed me into doing this. Don’t pretend you give a shit about how I feel now.”

Her jaw tightens as she processes my words, guilt slowly creeping up her features.

“I shouldn’t have threatened you with HR. I know that,” she finally says, her tone apologetic. “You just left me no choice, Rowan. I’m at a loss with you,” She throws her arms out in surrender.

“Cry me a fucking river,” I throw out before turning around. I really don’t need to hear this right now. What’s done is done. The press is never going to let what happened go. My family is a story they’ll twist and milk until I’m rotting six feet under.

“You can’t just ignore the press forever. They want a story!” she insists, her voice rising with frustration as she jogs after me to keep up with my strides. I stop and turn back, causing her to crash against my chest with a small ‘oof.’

“You can go to HR if you want. I’m not doing this anymore.” My words are ice-cold, but a part of me is drawn to her defiance. Even now, even with my past being uprooted because of her, there’s still a part of me that’s drawn to her, and I fucking hate it.

“HR?” She looks taken aback for a moment, then regains her composure. “Rowan, I wasn’t actually going to tell HR. I’m here to help your career, not ruin it.”

“You call that,” I point back at the studio, “helping me? Do you know how you could’ve helped me, Livia?” I growl. “By going through the damn questions beforehand and removing any personal ones.”

“Personal questions are good!” she argues, her eyes locked on mine. “They let people see the real you.”

“I want people to see me play hockey,” I spit, my voice sharper than a knife. “I want them to see me on the ice, not in some emotional meltdown.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver, and I feel something shift in the air between us, the tension thick and heavy.

“Your reaction was unprofessional, Rowan,” she says finally, her brow furrowed as she crosses her arms defiantly. “This isn’t just about you. The team needs you to be the face of the franchise.”

I look at her, and I hate the fact that my own damn brain can’t decide whether to hate her or fuck her. But then she blurts out a question that answers that.

“What happened with your parents?” The question reignites the anger in me.

I lean closer, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “If you think for a second that you can pry into my personal life, you’re mistaken.” I take a step closer, the space between us tightening.

“I don’t want to pry,” she says softly. “I want to help you.” I can see her hesitating, the fire in her eyes wavering as I lean down, my breath brushing against her skin.

Fuck, she smells so good.

“Help me help you, Rowan,” she adds, her big blue eyes staring up at me through long lashes. I take a step closer, making her take a step back, then another, until her small frame is pressed against the hallway wall.

“Help you how?” I ask softly, tilting my head. I can see her chest rising and falling as her breathing becomes shallow. Before I can think better, I lift my hand and take her chin between my thumb and pointer finger, lifting it. Her lips part in an attempt to suck in more air. “Are you hoping I’ll give you another reason to blackmail me?” I ask, keeping my tone soft. I watch her swallow hard, her large blue eyes wide as they meet mine.

“Rowan,” she protests, breathless.

“Look who’s cornered now.” I inch closer, her body almost brushing against mine. Her pupils dilate, her eyes darkening as she looks up at me. There it is. I fucking knew she feels it, too. I’ve had countless women look at me like that, and most often than not, they usually end up with my cock in their mouth.

“How does it feel?” I ask, keeping my gaze locked on hers.

The challenge ignites something else in her gaze, and I can feel the shift. She’s torn between anger and what I’m sure is arousal. I see the flush in her cheeks. I see it in her eyes, and fuck if I don’t want to reach down and feel it between her legs.

“Step away from me, Rowan,” she says finally, her voice deceivingly stern. “And cut the intimidation tactics.”

“Intimidation isn’t a goal of mine,” I murmur, my eyes dropping to her full lips. “But if you keep pushing, it might become one.”

Before I do something stupid, I push away from the wall and turn around as quickly as possible to hide what she’s just done to me. My dick strains against the fabric of my pants, begging for more room.

Fuck, something’s wrong with me.

The pool glints under the moonlight, calm and still. I sit at the edge of a lounge chair, scotch in hand, trying to let the burn of it calm me down. It doesn’t. My jaw clenches as I think about the interview, about her , and the way she twisted my arm into sitting under those damn lights. The way she looked up at me. If I had any doubt before, I sure as hell don’t now. Whatever it is that I feel, now I know she feels it, too. And I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

Damien is sprawled in the chair across from me, his legs stretched out, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. He’s swirling his drink, acting like we’re shooting the shit after practice instead of dissecting the disaster that happened today. Ares is silent by the pool’s edge, watching the water like it might tell him something the rest of us can’t see. His inked hands are stuffed in his pockets, but I know him well enough to know he’s listening. He’s always listening.

“She blackmailed me,” I finally say, the words sharp as shattered glass.

“No matter how many times you say it, it still sounds unbelievable.” Damien perks up, his grin widening.

“She twisted my damn arm,” I scoff, shaking my head.

That gets Ares’ attention. He turns, pale eyes narrowing as he takes a slow step closer.

“They asked about your parents.” His voice is low and even, but there’s something coiled in it. “She didn’t go through the questions beforehand?”

“She said personal questions are good .” I shake my head, setting my glass down with more force than necessary. The word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “That’s why I don’t do this shit. It’s about hockey. It should always be about hockey.”

“She got you good, huh?” Damien whistles, leaning back in his chair. “Gotta give her credit, though,” Damien says, smirking again. “Takes guts to blackmail the captain.”

“Don’t,” I warn, my voice low.

“She’s just doing her job.” Damien chuckles, lifting his hands in mock surrender.

“She should do her job with someone else.” My voice cuts through the night like a blade. “She’s chaos, and if that’s her job , I want her gone.”

“Then make it happen,” Ares says, his voice calm and cold as the water at his back.

I glance at him, frowning.

Ares steps closer, his expression unreadable under the shadow of his dark hair. “She signed a moral clause when she joined. They all do. No romantic relationships with players.”

“And?” Damien and I say at the same time.

“And if she breaks it,” he continues, his tone as smooth as glass, “she’s gone.”

The idea hits me like a punch to the gut, sharp and undeniable. I hate how logical it is and how clean and simple he makes it sound.

“Jeez, Ares.” Damien snorts, shaking his head. “You don’t fuck around, do you?”

“It’s not personal. It’s tactical.” Ares doesn’t even look at him. His gaze is locked on me, steady. “She’s distracting our captain right before the pregames are about to start. She’s a threat.”

“You’re saying I should get her to cross the line?” I sit back, staring at him as his words settle.

The room seems to drop a few degrees, and even Damien, for all his usual antics, falls silent. Ares’ words hang in the air, dark and unyielding, like the man himself.

“The team’s not going to sacrifice their captain for some rookie PR agent,” Ares adds, his deep voice barely more than a murmur but carrying enough weight to feel like a hammer blow. “You know that.”

“It’s not a bad idea, Rowan,” Damien chimes in. “You might get a stern talking to for your part, but management would never let this reach the press. Meanwhile, your problem with Ms. Moody goes away.”

“She’s not stupid,” I say, testing the waters. “She’ll see it coming.”

“Then don’t let her,” Ares replies, his voice like a quiet dare.

Damien lets out a low laugh, shaking his head.

I don’t answer right away. My fingers tighten around the glass, and I watch the amber liquid swirl in the moonlight. The thought shouldn’t appeal to me as much as it does, but she’s already drawn first blood. And I don’t lose.

Ares watches me, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Push. Pull. Make her doubt her own footing. Take her hand and walk her to the edge. Have her step over it. And when she does…” he trails off, his lips quirking into something close to a smile.

“Let go,” I finish, the words feeling heavier than I’d like.

Instead of answering, Ares gives me a knowing look before leaning over to slide his glass toward him. This is why I’m glad I’m not on Ares’ shit list.

“To chaos.” Damien raises his glass, his grin returning with a sharp edge.

I don’t bother to toast. My mind’s already spinning with possibilities. Livia wanted to cross me. She wanted to see what I’d do when backed into a corner.

She’s about to find out.