Page 16 of Cold Carnage

My phone buzzed again—texts from worried sponsors wanting reassurances. I silenced it and focused on Gideon’s words.

“Paige,” he said suddenly, drawing all eyes to me, “you’ll be handling some of these sponsors directly. Make sure they understand we’re in control.”

I nodded sharply, feeling every eye in the room scrutinizing me. This was my chance—no matter how daunting—to prove that I belonged here.

“We’ll get through this,” Gideon finished with a nod that felt like a command more than reassurance. “Together. That's it.” A beat as he turned to look at me. “Paige, a word."

The meeting broke, the room buzzing with a mix of tension and determination. People filed out quickly, heads bent together in hushed conversations. I stayed in my seat, fingers drumming lightly on the table’s edge.

I waited until the last person left; the door closing softly behind them. The room felt cavernous now, echoing with theweight of our predicament. Gideon remained standing at the head of the table, remote in hand.

“This is a disaster,” he began, voice cold and professional. He clicked the remote, and the footage from the bar fight flickered back onto the screen. Ryker Kane was front and center, fists swinging. My stomach tightened at the sight.

“We’re already under scrutiny because of Richard Mathers. The last thing we need is a media frenzy over this fight.”

I nodded, my throat tight. The stakes had never felt higher.

Gideon’s gaze swept across the room before landing on me. “You’re going to handle the PR fallout,” he said without preamble. “You need to get the players under control, coordinate their statements, and make sure this doesn’t spiral further. The last thing we need is more negative press. I don't understand. Ryker Kane is not the sort to get caught up in…" He waved his hand at the screen. “This. Find out what the hell happened.”

The weight of his words settled heavily on my shoulders. I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to remain steady. “I’ll manage it,” I said, even though the task ahead felt crushing.

Gideon nodded curtly. “Good. Start by getting Ryker in line. He’s the face of this team; we can’t afford for him to be seen like this.”

My mind raced with strategies as I left the conference room and headed toward my office. I needed to craft statements that would placate sponsors and reassure fans, all while dealing with Ryker's notorious temper.

The hardest part would undoubtedly be Ryker himself. Our interactions so far had been icy at best. Now I had to navigate his resistance and convince him to toe the line for the good of the team.

As I reached my office, I pushed open the door and sank into my chair. My phone buzzed with incoming messages—sponsors wanting reassurances, media requests piling up.

No time for hesitation.

I rolled up my sleeves and began drafting statements, my mind laser-focused on damage control. There was no room for error; everything depended on how well I could manage this crisis.

And first on my list was a conversation with Ryker Kane—a conversation that could make or break everything we were trying to salvage.

Drafting statements and organizing a media strategy consumed my morning. My fingers flew over the keyboard, crafting the perfect words to distance the team from the scandal. The players involved, especially Ryker, needed to be on board with the plan. That’s where things got tricky.

I headed down to the locker room, where I knew the players had already been briefed on the situation. The tension was palpable even before I entered. I spotted Assistant Coach Kakashi Yamaguchi standing near the door, his tall frame and white hair giving him an air of composed authority especially for someone as young as he was — I'd say mid to late thirties, if I had to guess.

"Am I good to go in?" I asked, trying to sound confident despite the anxiety gnawing at my insides.

He nodded without a word, his eyes betraying no emotion.

"Thank you," I said, pushing open the door.

The atmosphere inside was heavy with frustration and unease. Ryker sat with a few of the other players involved in the fight, his face hard and eyes dark with anger. He looked like he wanted to punch something—or someone—again.

I took a deep breath and walked over to him, steeling myself for what was bound to be an unpleasant conversation.

"Ryker," I said firmly but calmly, "we need to talk about the media strategy. You’re going to have to make a statement."

He looked up at me, jaw tight. "I’m not talking to the media," he said flatly.

I had expected this. "You don’t have a choice," I replied. "If you don’t get ahead of this, the media is going to spin this story out of control. The longer we stay silent, the worse it’s going to get."

Ryker's eyes narrowed into slits of defiance. "I don’t care what they say. This is a bullshit story. We’re not going to win by playing nice with the media."

I stood my ground, feeling every ounce of my determination solidify. "You’re not going to win by staying silent, either. You’re the captain of this team. Whether you like it or not, your image matters."

---