Page 40 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

Ansel

T he past few days have been an absolute blur.

The Granite’s owner called shortly after the news broke and reamed me six ways to Sunday, but once calmed down enough to listen to my side of things, he seemed to be okay.

Not that it was the last time he called or anything.

I spent the weekend holed up with Lewis and Kari, strategizing on talking points, reaching out to my personal sponsors and team sponsors, and generally trying to keep my shit together.

Which was nearly impossible when my lawyer reported on what she was doing on the legal side.

Spoiler alert: There’s pretty much nothing she can do. Which is utter and complete bullshit. And I was quick to tell her that, but she swore that she and her team were doing everything they could.

Rosie managed to remain relatively oblivious to the whole thing, which has been the only silver lining to all of this.

And Elodie…

Fuck. Elodie.

It’s ninety-five degrees, and she’s curled up on the screened-in patio couch wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, eyes glued to her phone. Beside her, Rosie chatters about one thing or another while she puts her favorite puzzle together on the coffee table.

I pour them both some lemonade, cutting the juice with water and dropping freshly sliced jalapenos in it for Elodie just the way I know she likes.

Rosie’s eyes sparkle when she sees the glasses in my hands. “Lemonade!” She jumps up and takes it from me, doing a little happy dance as she sips it through a curly straw. The curly straws are mandatory, as I’ve been informed they make everything taste better.

Elodie’s eyes are the opposite, dull and sad, as I ease down beside her and hand hers over. “Thanks.”

“You really shouldn’t pay so much attention to all that.” I tip my chin to her phone. “We both know that none of it is true, and it’s not good for you.”

She shakes her head, a lone tear tracing down her cheek. “I’m so sorry. I never should have gone to that gala.”

I’ve lost count of how many times she’s apologized. “We couldn’t have seen this coming, Elodie.”

“It’s my worst nightmare. Everyone knows who I am.

My mother won’t stop texting with updates on how bad this is for her pageant presidency bid and keeps demanding that I make it all stop, as if I have control over anything.

Complete strangers are DM’ing me and telling me I don’t deserve to live,” she says, her voice low.

“I thought that maybe it’d die down, you know?

But it’s only gotten worse. The freaking British tabloids have caught on, Ansel!

They’re gleeful that the ‘Yank ruggers’ finally have some drama.

Do you know how bad this is? What they’re calling me?

” Her voice is shrill, and I watch as she works to rein herself back in.

“I’m aware,” I tell her. “Well aware. I have agents asking if they need to find a new team for their player. Marketing called this morning to tell me sales are either going to take a hit because of this, or they’ll explode, and they’re not sure which yet.

The owner called me again. We’ve talked more in the past three days than I ever wanted to talk to the man.

Lewis is earning every cent he makes off me.

And Kari’s blowing up my phone. The press are hounding me for a quote, but Kari’s holding us off until this afternoon’s press conference. ”

She whips her head toward me. “Press conference?”

I keep going. “My parents have called. The players have called, half of them to see if I’m okay and the other half to see if we’re practicing this week.” I huff out a dry laugh. “So. Yes. I’m aware.”

Her face is pale. “And…Lauren? Have you heard anything from her?”

I shake my head. “That’s the worst of it. Through everything, I can’t figure out what she gets out of stirring all this up. She can’t really want custody.”

Because I will crumble if she takes my little girl.

Every reasonable part of me knows that it’s impossible, that no judge in their right mind would grant her custody after she literally abandoned her child to my care, but reasonable packed its bags about two days ago.

Reasonable is long gone, and in its place is nothing but dread, cold fury, and a thirst for vengeance.

“She’s…” Elodie cuts herself off with a meaningful look at Rosie, who’s humming to herself while she works on the puzzle nearby. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Rosie stays here.”

“That’s all that matters,” I say vehemently.

Elodie studies me quietly, her eyes puffy and smudged with purple from lack of sleep, while my mind whirls with everything I need to do.

“You’re good to watch her?” I ask, indicating my daughter.

“It’s my job, Ansel,” she reminds me wryly. “I’m definitely good to watch her.”

I still check one last time before I leave for the Granite’s facilities.

I’m trying to pull my shit together in the coach’s office for the millionth time when Mark, the head of finance, stops by. “Certainly one way to make a splash, Coach.” He grins as he speaks.

“Don’t call me Coach,” I shoot back, thankful for the immediate friendliness he offers.

Mark smiles back. “Being interim coach not a big enough spotlight for you, man? I thought that check I cut you was plenty.”

“No one wants this over with more than me,” I tell him. “What’s going on? I know you’re not just here to shoot the breeze.”

He shrugs. “Honestly? Wanted to check on you. See how you were doing. How’s your daughter?”

The question is an emotional tackle, and it feels like Mark just took me down a yard from the try line. I force away the tightness in my throat and answer, “Good. Doesn’t really know what’s going on, which is good.”

With a nod, he taps his ring on the doorframe. “You’ve got a lot of people in your corner, Coach. See you later.”

He disappears down the hall, and I stare after him, not quite sure what to make of the visit, but grateful nonetheless.

Kari and her boss, Frank, appear right before the press conference. Frank leads the way, shark-like as ever in a fitted three-piece suit. His bald head gleams beneath the fluorescent lights as he takes one look at me and barks, “Are you ready?”

I stiffen. I really don’t like this man. It’s obvious that Kari is the real brains and workhorse of the operation, but Frank operates as though he’s going to get all the glory. So, screw him.

“I am. No thanks to you.”

He stares at me, expressionless. Behind him, Kari’s eyes go wide with shock.

But Frank doesn’t seem fazed. “I’ve been busy ensuring our team sponsors don’t bail on us thanks to your inability to keep your dick in your pants. The nanny , Ansel? Really?”

Kari inhales sharply.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” I bite out, rising from the desk and closing the distance between me and the smarmy asshole.

Frank rolls his eyes. “Whatever, bucko. My job is to protect the organization, not you. If you can’t handle it, then you shouldn’t have said yes to the job. All you are is one more athlete falling prey to pussy. Twice, if I’m not mistaken.”

I square my stance and am seconds from punching him when Kari clears her throat.

I glare at Frank. “You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?”

He shrugs and picks a piece of invisible lint off his jacket. “Yeah, well, I’m a fucking asshole who’s seen just about everything and covered most of it up. So, if you’re ready to do what you’ve been told, then we can get this over with.”

Chest heaving, I look past him to where Kari stands, iPad clutched against her chest. “Shall we?”

She nods stiffly, her eyes darting at both of us before she pivots and leads us to the press room down the hall.

She slows as we approach, turning and opening her mouth to say something.

Frank brushes me without even so much as looking at Kari, and her mouth clamps shut as tiny dots of red appear on her cheeks.

“Would you believe it if I told you that was pretty mild?” Kari says.

“Would you believe it if I told you I was prepared to beat him to a bloody pulp?” I counter, shaking my head and blowing air out of my mouth, needing to re-focus on the task at hand.

The room is a pretty standard conference room, with rows of chairs for the press set up to face a long, thin table set up on a raised dais.

In the center of the table sit about twenty microphones, all turned on and ready to capture everything I say.

All the camera operators stand about halfway back from the dais, and the quality of those cameras depends on the news outlets covering the story.

Sometimes, the “camera” is simply someone aiming an iPhone.

There are two entrances into the room: through the rows of double doors at the back of the room, or through the single door that’s hidden behind a well-placed column. That’s where we stand now as Frank calls the room to order.

I take another deep breath and exhale, using these final moments to center myself and brace for the worst.

“You’ll do great,” Kari murmurs.

“Tell that to my sweaty palms,” I say back, my voice low.

She chuckles. “Being nervous means you care,” she assures me. “Just picture all of them naked.”

I snort a soft laugh. “Most of them are fat and hairy, Kari. I’ll do no such thing.” With that, I step into the room.

Cameras immediately start flashing, reporters calling out questions. Frank turns to me, a gleaming smile on his face as he gestures to the center chair. I take a seat as he slithers off.

I’ve been in the room plenty of times, but never like this. Never as the coach—interim or otherwise. Never as the one the meeting has been called for. And as the cameras keep flashing, the questions still coming, all I can do is remind myself why I’m here.

I hold my hands up, and the room eventually quiets. “I was told to prepare a statement for this. And I did. But I’m going to speak from the heart instead.”

Hidden behind the pillar, Frank throws his arms up. I’m willing to bet that if I turned and looked at him, I’d see steam coming out of his ears.

I swallow. “How many of you are parents?”

A few hands raise, and after a moment, a few more.

With a wry smile, I nod at them. “Being a parent is tough. I’m willing to bet that most of you had time to adjust to the idea—say, eight or nine months. But I didn’t. I became a parent the day that my daughter’s birth mother decided she’d had enough and left her on my front porch.”

Murmurs and more camera flashes. “Is that true?” someone shouts.

“You really think I’d make that up?” I ask, then I reconsider. “Don’t answer that.”

The reporters laugh.

I continue. “Yes, it’s true. I didn’t know she was pregnant.

She kept it from me and then decided she didn’t want to be a mom.

She left my almost three-month-old daughter on the porch with a note and a birth certificate.

” I let that sink in, then forge ahead. “Here’s the thing.

What’s happening right now between my daughter’s birth mother and me is private.

It’s not your business. It’s no one’s business but ours. ”

“But what about the nanny?” someone yells.

“What about the nanny?” I ask.

“The audio?—”

“Is completely doctored,” I finish.

“I’ve got an expert who says that’s the nanny’s voice.”

Anger starts to simmer. “I don’t give a damn what your ‘expert’ says,” I growl.

Kari appears beside me. “What Coach Miles?—”

“ Interim Coach,” I correct.

“What Interim Coach Miles is trying to say,” Kari says, eyeing me with no small amount of exasperation, “is that while the words you hear on the file are, in fact, Elodie Cole’s, they weren’t said in that order, and she contends that many of the words never came out of her mouth.

This is a clear use of AI in a smear campaign designed to put Coach Miles on the defensive.

Miss Cole and interim Coach Miles are the victims here. Not Lauren Williamson.”

Frank is practically dancing a jig in my periphery, and based on Kari’s smooth delivery, I’m beginning to suspect that she’s seen way more things in this rugby club than I want to know.

I stand. “We’re done.”

Reporters immediately begin to lob more questions at me, but I ignore them as I make my way down the dais.

Frank blocks my way, his arms crossed.

I don’t break stride, aiming straight for him.

And when he doesn’t move, I shoulder-check him so hard he hits the wall behind him.

I don’t bother saying a word.