Chapter 9: Fire & Flashbulbs
1287 Words
The press conference room felt like a powder keg wrapped in velvet. Cameras flashed in every direction, lighting up the Zenith Strikers crest like a stage prop. Reporters leaned over barriers, jostling for space, their voices rising in eager chaos. Every outlet worth their ink had shown up—sports, gossip, finance. Everyone wanted blood or a soundbite.
Behind the curtain, Eliana inhaled slowly through her nose, arms crossed tight. Her blazer itched at the collar, but she didn’t adjust it. Didn’t blink.
“This is a bad idea,” she muttered.
Beside her, Charlie chuckled under his breath. “That’s what makes it interesting.”
“You’re not the one whose father owns the club,” she snapped. “A single wrong word and we lose millions. Sponsors, fans—everything.”
“And if we don’t speak, we look guilty.” Charlie rolled his shoulders under his fitted Zenith suit. His tattoos were hidden, but the defiance in his eyes was impossible to suppress. “People want the truth, Eliana.”
“No,” she said, glancing at him. “They want a target.”
She stepped forward. The curtain peeled back. The crowd ignited.
Flashes exploded like fireworks. The noise hit her like a wave—shouting, clapping, rapidfire questions barked over one another. Eliana walked to the table with poise, flanked by Charlie and Victor, who wore a politician’s smile stretched like wax over steel.
They took their seats.
Victor leaned into the microphone first. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us. There’s been... speculation this past week—about our club, our players, and the choices we’ve made. Today, we’re going to speak directly.”
The murmurs paused, then swelled again.
“This young man,” Victor said, gesturing to Charlie, “has been the subject of false rumors. Let’s set the record straight.”
Charlie cleared his throat. “Yeah. Let’s.” His voice was even, but the twitch in his jaw betrayed tension.
“There was a report I threw a game. That I hit a teammate over it. Not true. I walked out when I was asked to take money to lose. And I paid the price—lost contracts, lost friends. But I didn’t throw that game.”
A few reporters leaned forward, suddenly scribbling notes.
“Then why were you kicked out of your last club?” a woman from The Tribune asked sharply.
Charlie gave her a dry smile. “Because I made powerful people angry.”
That got a few chuckles from the crowd.
More questions came—about his past, his presence at Zenith, his relationship with Eliana. He dodged the last one with a well-placed smirk and a sip of water, prompting a wave of laughter.
Eliana watched him, trying not to look like she was watching him. His charisma was frustrating. He owned the room with unapologetic ease. For a moment, she thought—maybe this would work. Maybe they’d survived the firestorm.
And then the scream split the air.
It didn’t come from the press line. It came from behind.
“Gun!”
Chaos detonated.
The back doors burst open. Someone shoved a chair. Screams exploded as people scattered. Security lunged forward.
Eliana’s instinct kicked in—drop.
She dove behind the table just as the first shot fired.
Pop-pop!
The sound tore through the hall like thunderclaps. Charlie yanked her down, covering her body with his. She felt his arm brace across her waist, his chest pressed against her back.
“Don’t move,” he whispered, low and hard.
Another shot cracked. A camera shattered. Screams merged into a single roar.
Eliana’s pulse thundered in her ears. She dared a glance beneath the table. Feet ran past—boots. Someone in a dark hoodie. Security tackled him near the door.
Another shot. Closer this time.
Charlie tensed. For a second, she thought he’d been hit. “Charlie?!”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “You?”
She nodded. Her fingers clutched his shirt.
A beat later, it was over. Silence fell like a hammer.
Then—sirens.
The shooter was pinned to the ground, blood blooming from his mouth where security had beaten him down. A bleeding journalist moaned by the first row. Another man clutched his shoulder, shouting for help.
Victor hadn’t moved. He was still seated, hands on the table, eyes cold.
Charlie slowly helped Eliana to her feet. She wobbled. Her ankle had twisted during the dive, but adrenaline drowned out the pain.
Lila broke through the crowd, tears streaking her mascara. “Eli! Oh my God—are you okay?!”
Eliana nodded, still shaking. “I think so.”
She turned to Charlie. He was still holding her hand. His knuckles were scraped.
“I’m good,” he said, trying to sound casual. “One hell of a press conference.”
Victor barked a dark laugh. “This wasn’t just some lunatic.”
Charlie’s eyes sharpened. “You think it’s Damien?”
Victor’s expression twisted into something uglier than rage. “No. I know it was Damien.”
Lila gasped. “That gangster from Iron Hawks? But… why would he send a shooter here?”
“To scare us,” Eliana whispered. “To scare me.”
Charlie swore under his breath. “He just declared war.”
Paramedics rushed in. Police began questioning witnesses. Camera crews filmed the chaos. Already, news was breaking: "Press Conference m******e at Zenith HQ". The photo of Eliana and Charlie clutching each other was circulating. It looked like a movie still—smeared blood, torn suit, wide eyes.
“You need protection,” Victor said suddenly, staring at Eliana. “Round-the-clock security. This isn’t over.”
“I’m not going into hiding,” she snapped. “This is my club.”
“You’re not bulletproof,” Charlie said, stepping closer. “And if something had happened to you...”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Their eyes met.
Eliana saw something in him she hadn’t seen before. Not charm. Not bravado.
Fear.
Real, raw fear. For her.
“I’m not leaving,” she said softly. “Not until this bastard is brought down.”
A photographer caught the moment. Flash.
They didn’t move.
Later that night, after the club shut down the press room, Eliana sat in her office, staring at security footage. The shooter had come in posing as media. He was clean-cut, no tattoos, nothing obvious. Just another face in the crowd until he drew the gun.
Charlie paced behind her.
“Victor’s right about one thing,” he said. “This was a message. And it won’t be the last.”
Eliana turned in her chair. “Why do you care so much?”
He stopped. His eyes met hers. “Because I’ve seen what people like Damien do. They don’t stop until someone stops them.”
“Then help me,” she said. “Stay.”
He hesitated. “Even after everything you know about me?”
“I know enough to trust you,” she said. “And I’ve learned not many people deserve that.”
Charlie slowly nodded.
“Then I’m in. All the way.”
The door creaked open. Lila stepped in, holding her phone.
“You need to see this,” she said, voice trembling.
She showed them the screen.
It was a video—grainy, night-vision footage. Damien, laughing, clinking glasses with two strangers. Behind them, pinned to a dartboard… a Zenith jersey.
Blood spattered on the wall behind it.
“I think he’s just getting started,” Lila whispered.
Eliana stared at the screen. Her jaw tightened.
Then she stood.
“Then so are we.”
- Writer
