Page 122 of The Wildest One
“What do you mean, something happened?”
My head shook. “I don’t know. I missed it all. Because I was in here … with you.”
THIRTY-ONE
Beck
The conference room at the Cole and Spade Hotel in Vegas was currently as loud as a locker room, the guys in various states—some hungover, some still buzzed, only a few, like me, completely sober. But that hadn’t stopped me from tearing into those motherfuckers.
I didn’t care if it was one person’s mistake; we were a team. When one fucked up, we all fucked up.
By the owner, by the staff, and by the public, we were viewed as a whole.
And what this team had done yesterday while Jolie and I were ravishing each other’s bodies was inexcusable.
Since I was the captain, they first needed to hear it from me.
But I was only a small part. Jolie and her assistants would be here at any second, and I assumed the guys were going to hear it all again.
“Dude, you need to go on Instagram and type in Kirk Clark and see all the shit that pops up,” Landon said from the chair next to me.
“I don’t do social media—you know that,” I told him. “Besides, if I saw a meme, or whatever those things are called, with our defenseman’s face on it, I might lose my shit on everyone again.”
I glared at Kirk, who was on the other side of the room. He was reclined in his seat with his arms crossed, a smug look on his face. If he was feeling remorse—and on some level, he had to—he wasn’t showing it, and that only made me wilder.
“You mean like this one?” Landon tilted his phone toward me.
“This isn’t funny, fucker.”
“I’m not laughing.” He swiped his screen several times. “But look at this one.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you, Landon. Put your goddamn phone down and stop adding to the views.”
“My views aren’t making a difference—I promise that.” He turned his Whales hat backward. “According to one site, Kirk’s name has been viewed over twelve million times. And you know that’s not all from hockey.” He smiled. “I’m just thankful it was him and not me. I’m the king of bad decisions.”
I slumped down in my chair and pulled my hoodie over my head.
This was a fucking mess.
And now it had become Jolie’s mess. I couldn’t even imagine how this was affecting her. Aside from a text about thirty minutes ago that told me to round up the guys and have them come to the conference room, we hadn’t spoken since she’d run out of her suite three hours ago.
But I knew the fallout was going to be a PR nightmare, and she would be in the center of it.
The door opened, and Jolie and her two assistants walked in. The stress was evident on her face—bags were suddenly under her eyes, her hair messier than usual, like she’d been pulling ather strands. I could almost see the headache pounding behind her eyes.
My baby.
I just wanted to take care of her.
I just wanted to take her away from this mess.
She stood at the front of the table, holding the top of the vacant chair that I’d reserved for her, her knuckles white as she looked at the faces around the room.
“I’m assuming you’re all aware of the incident that occurred yesterday at the pool.” She took a deep breath. “An incident that has now gone viral. Our team’s name is being dragged through the mud with the help of every news channel and social media site.” She pulled at her sweatshirt—the first piece of clothing she could find in her room, which she had thrown on before she flew through the door. “Our crisis PR team is on their way to Vegas. They’ve already drafted a statement that will be released to the press. Kirk will have one as well, just slightly different, and he’ll release his at the same time. At some point this evening, they’re going to have a meeting with you all and discuss this in more detail.”
She folded her hands together. “In the meantime, I would appreciate it if the rest of you stayed silent. Don’t engage with any posts. Don’t offer any comments if the media reaches out to you. Don’t make your own statements. Our team will handle this. Not you.”
She glanced toward the seat of the chair, her hands rubbing back and forth across the cushion.
