Page 8 of Iced Up Love: Part Two
And for one ugly second all I can think about is Lia somewhere I can’t reach, Elijah pacing like a caged animal behind security doors, Zach barely holding himself together, and me being asked about fucking social media.
“I said I’m focused on hockey,” I reply, each word a little harder than the last.
There’s a small pause. Someone senses the edge and backs off. Another reporter pivots back to the game, asks about the loss, asks about Vegas’s pressure in the final stretch, asks something about team morale that I barely hear.
I answer. Barely. Every minute I sit there feels wrong in a way I can’t explain, like my body knows I’m supposed to be somewhere else and is rejecting every second of this.
By the time it ends, I’m holding on to restraint by my fingernails. I stand, ready to walk straight out, but PR intercepts me before I can clear the room.
“You cannot comment publicly on what happened with Elijah tonight,” she says immediately, stepping into my path with that polished, practiced expression people wear when they think control is the same thing as competence. “We’re going to try to keep this contained as much as possible.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I know,” she replies. “Keep it that way.”
She starts walking with me, like I’ve somehow agreed to this conversation.
“And Jackson, we need to talk about your brand.”
I stop and look at her.
“My what?”
“Your visibility,” she says. “Your engagement has changed. You’ve been pulling back from the kind of content that built your audience. We’ve noticed a shift, and after tonight it would be smart to think carefully about how you manage your image moving forward.”
For a second I actually don’t know what to say, because the absurdity of it almost knocks the breath out of me.
“What I do with my social media is up to me.”
She offers a tight little smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“We’re just asking you to think about the future of your career.”
I stare at her for a beat.
Then, as evenly as I can, I say, “Can I go now?”
“Not yet,” she says. “We need a few photos first.”
Of course they do.
I don’t have the energy to fight it without causing an even bigger scene, so I let myself be steered down another hallway and into a smaller event space where a handful of fans are waiting with bright smiles and phones already out.
The whole thing feels surreal.
I stand where I’m told to stand. I let cameras flash in my face. I let people lean in too close and laugh too loudly and tell me how amazing the game was when I can barely hear them over the pounding in my own head.
All the while, one thought keeps threading through everything else. She is out there somewhere, and I have no idea what is happening to her right now.
The thought curdles into something sick and heavy in my stomach as another fan presses in beside me for a photo,perfume too sweet, hand sliding over my arm like she has any right to touch me.
A brunette with glossy lips and a tight dress asks if I’ve got a girlfriend in town. Another says she’s followed me since I was signed and she’d love to “take my mind off the loss.”
I look at them, at the bright expectation in their faces, and all I can feel is revulsion.
One of them tries to slip me a number.
“I don’t want that,” I say, sharper than I intended.
