Page 4

Three

Ryder

M edia day for a brand-new hockey team is way more insane than anything I’ve experienced. We’re taking all the photos and videos for our socials, player cards, and every promotion and project they have planned for the season. On top of that, we also have a literal minefield of sports journalists to run through once we finish. It’s a long fucking day.

I hate doing anything with the media, but this is mandatory, so I can’t slip out unnoticed or shove another player in front of a camera or microphone like I would with a post-game presser. Once I complete my photos and promo videos, I’m shuffled into the press room by a twenty-year-old blonde intern, wearing a Hydras polo with a death grip on her phone that she refuses to put away, even when we’re just waiting in line. I follow Westy and his handler, watching as he moves toward the gauntlet ahead and stops at the first media station.

“Westin Dumont, number sixty-nine, center,” he says when prompted by his handler from the PR team.

“I’m Garren Thomas with the Southern Sports Network. Dumont, can you tell us your plan for the season ahead as a new team?” a reporter calls, throwing him a softball of a question, if you ask me. We don't know the media that reports on our team yet, so they’ll have to introduce themselves now.

“We’re going to leave it all on the ice and keep a next-game mentality. Hard work pays off, boys, eh? We’re just going to do our best and play the hardest we can,” he replies, using tried-and-true answers that I’m sure the entire team has said at some point. We’ve all had extensive media coaching, even if it sticks with some of us more than others.

He moves down the line, and I take my place at my first media station with my handler nearby, who is making sure I know what to do and where to go next.

“I’m Lilah Williams with the Atlanta Free Press,” a busty brunette with pillowy red lips says as I position myself.

“Ryder Kingston, number one, goalie,” I say before my handler prompts. I want it to be done sooner rather than later, so I’ll get through the necessary bits quickly.

“Kingston, in mythology, the hydra is a beast with many serpent heads, but you seem to be taking the snake theme to a personal level before the season even begins. Can you elaborate on the comments you made yesterday about the Atlanta Condors, specifically, tight end Knox Contraire?” she asks, her winged eyeliner exaggerating her narrowed eyes and making me look twice as I process her question.

Is she calling me a fucking snake? “What comments?” I ask, not sure what she means. I was expecting the easy shit, like Westy was given.

“The homophobic comments you made while out at a local sports bar insinuating Contraire is gay. The original video now has over three million views on TikTok,” she clarifies, turning her phone around and showing me a screenshot of…holy fucking shit, that’s me . It looks like a photo of me taken over Nico’s shoulder, and the captions on the screen send a wave of nausea through me as sweat beads along my spine.

“Who posted that?” I demand, anger quickly replacing the dread that sinks like lead to my skates. Fuck my life, this can’t be happening. It was an outing with the team, and none of them were taking videos of me. Who got close enough and captured the worst thing I said over several hours of us shit-talking each other?

The reporter taps her screen, and the video plays. It’s a bit muffled and the background noise is loud, but you can clearly hear me say, “You’d think he’d be better at keeping his eye on the ball than that. He’s always liked handling them, a little too much.” The video is clipped so it immediately picks up with another damning statement, my face twisted with disgust. “Knox came onto me. He was obsessed with me and wouldn’t leave me alone. That’s not normal behavior. Knox was a fucking queer stalker. I wanted nothing to do with that shit.”

“What was your relationship with Knox Contraire, and when were you two…together?” she asks.

“What the fuck? We were never together,” I fire at her, not about to let this shit start up again. I got enough crap about Knox years ago. I won't let some pumped-up reporter twist the situation even more than it already is. “I knew Knox in high school. He was obsessed with me, which was one-sided.”

“Why did you make those comments, like you were informed about his current relationship status or sexuality? Have you reconnected with him since moving to Atlanta?” Her smile is cruel and condemning, calculating as she herds me along whatever booby-trapped path she’s set to get me to say something even more incriminating.

Did Knox fucking send her? Why is she putting me through the damn inquisition now? Where are my questions about playing style or season plans? I have to shut her down before this gets even more out of hand.

“I haven’t talked to Knox and have nothing more to say about him now. If you have questions about the Hydras or hockey, you better ask them.” My voice is low and threatening, grittier than the shoulder of I-85, the nastiest freeway I’ve come across in three states.

Clearly, she has no self-preservation instincts as she takes a step closer, her voice low and venom-laced, meant just for me to hear. “How can you possibly know anything about a man you just said you haven't spoken with in over a decade, who’s never made any statements about his sexuality, nor given anyone reason to suspect he’s anything other than straight as can be?” She ticks off each point on her fingers like the strikes she’s already thrown against me. “You spoke with such conviction and, well, homophobic rhetoric, you must have some knowledge that the rest of us don't from personal experience. That, or you’re just being an asshole with a nasty mouth looking to bring down the reputation of an upstanding player, in another sports league at that. A player who has given so much of his time and energy to wonderful causes and makes a point to give back quietly rather than run his mouth, like you. I figured you would either double down now and provide the necessary evidence, or backtrack like a scared bigot and dig yourself into a deeper hole. It’s not looking good for you either way, Kingston.”

Holy fuck. This woman is something else. I’ve never had a sports journalist drag me through the mud the way she is, and there have been plenty of shitty stories written about me. But the difference is it was always focused on how I played, not what I said or my fucking character . Shit, this is bad. But more than anything, she’s got me seeing red. The audacity of Lilah Williams. How fucking dare she question me like this?

“Someone decided to violate my privacy and post a video of a conversation they had no part in. It’s taken out of context and edited to only show the worst. If you had any fucking integrity, you would validate your sources and not report clickbait and use negative-leaning videos that are meant to stir up viewers for engagement as your only source.”

“If you want to set the record straight now, we will. Can you clarify why you would call Knox, and I quote a queer stalker ?” She pops a hand on her hip, drawing my gaze to her nails. They’re bright red with the Condors' black and white bird logo and football designs painted along their tips. Of course. It makes so much sense now. She’s a fucking football fan and probably knows Knox through reporting on his games. This is personal for her.

“No comment.” The words barely make it past my grinding molars. I’m fucking done with this interview and this antagonistic woman. She can fucking choke on her questions and take the stupid video with her. I’ll have to get my agent on the phone and see what we can do about controlling the spread of this stupid-ass video before more people see it. Three million views? What the hell is that? How would something like that spread so fast?

I turn toward the social media intern, finally remembering she’s been off to the side, ready to usher me to the next station. I roll my eyes when I catch her wide-eyed stare dropping between me and the video she found on her own phone. Some help she is. Now that’s three million and one views. Fucking hell. I push past Westy as he moves along the line of media stations and head for the door, skipping the rest of the questions and reporters waiting for me. Today is a bust, and I don't have it in me to answer anyone else. My hands shake, and my stomach is in sour knots. I’m in deep shit and so fucking angry about this whole situation.

It can’t get any fucking worse than this.