Page 8 of Reckless On Ice

“Hey Kingsy, I’m glad you called,” Mark says when he answers.

“Mark, I’m being evicted. I came home from weight training to a notice on my door. What the hell am I supposed to do? I don't have time to look for another place right now.”

“We both know you have bigger problems than just where to live, but this definitely complicates things.” He pauses to take a deep breath, and I hear the rasp of his fingers rubbing over the stubble on his face. “I just got into Atlanta and need you to meet me in an hour at the local office. I’ll text you the address. We need to fix the situation you’ve got yourself into, and I don’t care what else is going on, so you better be there.”

Relief floods me. Mark’s a problem solver. If he’s here in town, he’s going to make this right. I can breathe for thefirst time since that Lilah woman put me through the wringer about the video and alerted me to my first mistake, which suddenly thrust me into a spotlight I never asked for. I’d called Mark as I was leaving the arena to tell him about the situation, and apparently, it was big enough for him to fly into town to fix.

“Thanks, Mark. I’ll be there. This is so fucked. My life feels like it’s burning down around me. I don’t know what to do.”

“I know, man. We’ll talk about it later,” he says coolly.

We hang up, and he texts me the address for his firm's local office. I shower and get dressed before leaving the house, hoping there aren’t any extra surprises when I get back, like a water leak, a roach infestation, or something else unimaginable that will be the cherry on top of everything that's been thrown at me so far.

The office is in a high-rise in downtown Atlanta. A receptionist leads me to a conference room when I check in, and not only is Mark there, but so is Knox fucking Contraire.Great.

I step inside the room, and the receptionist closes the door behind me, trapping me in here with the subject of my viral video and the agent who represents us both. “What the hell is going on?” I ask.

“Have a seat, Kingsy. We need to talk.” Mark points to a seat opposite him and a few down from Knox.

I trudge to the chair, carefully avoiding Knox’s gaze and focusing on Mark again when I’m settled. “What’s he doinghere?” I ask, tipping my head in Knox’s direction, no longer able to remain silent.

“Well, Ryder,” he begins, and the use of my full name instead of my nickname tells me this isn’t going to be good. “When you decided to run your mouth about another athlete—a former friend and another client of mine at that—it became imperative that I bring you both in and remind you that not only are you public figures who have eyes on you at all times, but you are held to a higher standard by definition.”

“Come on, Mark,” I say, laughing. “I was out with the boys, we were fucking around and I said some shit that was caught on someone’s phone and posted out of context. It’s not that serious. People need to let it go already.” I’m ready to defend my actions any way I can. He shouldn't be giving me a talking to about it.

“Oh, so you have a legitimate reason to be speaking about another person’s private life or sexuality that was taken out of context? I want to hear what that may have been. Please enlighten us on your conversation with the boys about an athlete from an entirely different sport, and why you were passionately calling him a queer stalker and saying he was obsessed with you. I’d love to hear the rest of it if that was a portion taken out of context.” Mark leans back, crossing his ankle over his knee and steepling his fingers together in his lap, cocking his perfectly coiffed, silver-streaked head.

“Come on, that’s not what I meant,” I say, heat rising in my cheeks. Mark is laying into me in front of my former bestfriend and the target of so much of my hate, even now, when we’re both adults and far past that contentious place in our lives.

Mark drops his foot back to the ground and throws his hands up. “Exactly. You’re running your mouth in public and allowing people to misinterpret you, or catching parts of your conversations that are unsavory, and show you in a terrible light at best.” Mark leans forward and levels me with an intense blue-eyed glare. “You know better, Ryder.” He holds up a finger. “One, we don't talk about other people the way you were. You’re called to a higher standard as a professional athlete and person of interest.” He adds a second finger. “Two, this is another professional athlete you’re speaking about, so it’s even worse that you made any comment, especially the kind you did.” He stands, pacing along the table, clearly worked up as I sit and take the dressing down he’s intent on giving me.

“It was a private conversation. It never should have made it online,” I mumble, looking at my hands.

“That’s irrelevant.” He shakes his head. “Look, I expect you to know this already since you’re an adult who’s been in the spotlight for ten years, but it seems the lesson missed its mark at some point.” He bends and plants his hands on the table, looking me in the eye and holding the contact as he delivers his rebuke. “We can’t assume anyone’s preferences in this day and age. We don’t disparage them, even if we do know. That’s low, and people are rightfully eviscerating you online because they’re irate at your bigotry.”

“It’s about time you get back what you dish out,” Knox says, just loud enough for us to hear.

My head snaps in his direction. “Oh, that’s rich,” I growl, but Mark stops me before I can tear into the asshole.

“Enough, both of you.” He turns his attention away from me, and I breathe in the momentary reprieve from his fury. “Knox, you’re here because you decided, for the first time in your career, to add to my splitting headache by making your own ill-advised statement that I now have to navigate on top of everything else. As if my life wasn’t hard enough with this joker.” Mark thumbs my way before he grips his temples, rubbing like we’re the biggest pains in his ass. I’m sure this sucks for him, but my situation is objectively worse.

What the hell did Knox say, anyway? It had to be about me or in retaliation for what I said. Fantastic. Just what I need on top of a viral video making me look like a douche and an eviction notice. Now I’m in some kind of online inter-sport feud, too.

“You better keep my name out of your mouth.” The condescension drips from my tone as I finally let my eyes land on Knox. He looks so different from what I remember, yet he’s as familiar as my reflection. He’s…grown up and looks so perfect it’s unfair. No man should be that handsome and leave the rest of us with the scraps he left in his race to perfection. His face is sculpted, the skin smooth like satin and rich like milk chocolate over high cheekbones and a square jaw with the slightest shadow, his brow set off by the perfect fade of his dark, buzzed hair. His espresso eyes are hard when they meet mine, causing me to look away when I realize I’ve been staring like a creeper.

“After all those years of you being so reckless with my name, you think I should respect yours now? That’s a level of hypocrisy I didn’t know existed, but it shouldn't surprise me, coming from you,” Knox bites out, leaning toward me, his shoulders bunching under his shirt as he grips the armrests of his chair as if barely containing himself.

“You keeping score, Contraire? That’s not a surprise, since you’ve always been obsessed with me. You would still hold on to that.” It comes out so easily, the words right there on my tongue, and let loose like arrows flying toward my target before I even realize I’ve drawn the bowstring. I’ve learned a few lessons about controlling my impulses in the decade or more since I’ve seen him, but somehow, they don’t seem to pertain to Knox. Despite the time and distance, I still can't seem to bite my tongue around him.

“Cut the shit, both of you,” Mark snaps, stopping his pacing across from us. “If you want to act like middle school girls with your bickering, I’ll treat you like middle school girls. Ryder, you need to learn to control your temper and your mouth. Knox, until recently, has had a perfect record of saying exactly what he should in interviews, so he’s going to teach you how to carry yourself even when you’ve lost, had a bad day, or are angry.”

“Mark, seriously, why do I have to—” Knox begins, butMark stops him with an outstretched hand.

“This is your punishment for clapping back in that piece that ran today in the Atlanta Free Press.” He looks between us to make sure neither of us is going to interrupt him again. “And you’re going to be roommates for the rest of the season, so you can live together and learn to get along.”

“Absolutely not, this is bullshit—” Knox growls.

“Not on your fucking life—” I grit out at the same time before Mark whistles sharply and stops our grumbling.

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