Chapter 3
1370 Words
Chapter Three
Keiran’s POV
By the time my flight took off, I had already decided Varek Ing was either an i***t, a menace to society, or both.
He's the total opposite of whom I had expected him to be.
Possibly both.
I stared at the collection of headlines glowing from my laptop screen and seriously considered ordering something stronger than airplane coffee.
Unfortunately, it was ten in the morning, and unlike my new client, I preferred to make my bad decisions consciously.
Across the aisle, a businessman snored softly while I opened yet another article detailing Jaxon’s latest public disaster.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered under my breath.
The woman seated beside me glanced over curiously before quickly pretending not to.
Fair enough. I probably looked slightly homicidal.
Caleb had warned me his teammate was trouble, but trouble was usually manageable. Trouble meant cheating scandals, leaked videos, arrogant executives with anger issues, maybe the occasional public intoxication incident.
Varek, however, appeared committed to treating his reputation like a group project he refused to participate in.
I clicked through another paparazzi gallery.
There he was leaving a nightclub in Manhattan at two in the morning wearing a backwards cap, dark sunglasses, and the expression of a man who’d never once faced consequences in his life. A brunette clung to his arm while another woman laughed behind him.
Three days later, he’d been photographed at a luxury hotel in Chicago with someone entirely different.
Then there was the girlfriend situation.
Or rather, the alleged girlfriend situation.
Because according to multiple interviews, Varek was supposedly in a “committed private relationship,” yet every available piece of evidence suggested his definition of commitment belonged in a psychological case study.
I leaned back in my seat and rubbed my temple.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “So we’re dealing with a lying hockey player, possible alcohol dependency, commitment issues, gambling rumors, anger management problems, and whatever this is.”
I zoomed in on a blurry i********: photo posted three nights ago.
The image looked like it had been taken during the apocalypse. Flashing club lights. Half-empty liquor bottles. Expensive watches. Women draped across leather booths.
And right in the middle of the chaos sat Varek.
Shirtless and illegally Drunk.
Grinning directly at the camera like public relations departments didn’t exist.
I stared at the photo for a long moment before adding another note to my growing file.
Exhibits alarming frat-boy energy.
My fingers flew across the keyboard as ideas started piecing themselves together in my head. Damage control first. Clean-up second. Reinvention third.
If I handled this correctly, I could salvage his image before transfer season.
If I handled it badly, he’d probably end up getting traded to Antarctica.
Honestly, based on the file Caleb sent me, Antarctica might benefit from the emotional maturity.
A notification suddenly popped up on my screen.
The same nightclub photo had been reposted again.
Thirty-seven thousand likes, Wow!
I clicked the profile immediately and tracked the original uploader within minutes. A fan account. Young and harmless. Probably thrilled that her blurry paparazzi-adjacent content was gaining traction online.
Exactly the kind of person easiest to negotiate with.
I opened my email and started typing.
Professional, polite, persuasive and I hit send.
Then waited.
Two minutes later, my inbox pinged.
OH MY GOD YES ABSOLUTELY
The post disappeared almost immediately.
I smiled faintly and took a sip of my coffee.
One crisis down.
Only several hundred remaining.
By the time the plane landed, I had a full rehabilitation outline prepared and precisely zero patience left.
I switched my phone back on while walking through the terminal, and it immediately began vibrating like it was possessed.
Missed calls flooded the screen.
Caleb, My assistant, an unknown number, Unknown number again.
A strange knot tightened in my stomach.
Something was wrong.
I tried Caleb first, but the call went straight to voicemail.
“That’s comforting,” I muttered.
I was halfway toward baggage claim when the unknown number called again.
I answered immediately. “Hello?”
“Miss Hale?”
The male voice sounded careful. Too careful.
My grip tightened around my suitcase handle. “Yes?”
“My name is Robert Whitmore. I’m attorney to Miss Chloe Bennett.”
My chest tightened instantly.
Chloe?
Why would Chloe’s attorney be calling me?
“I’m sorry,” I said slowly, already feeling dread creep up my spine, “but what exactly is happening?”
There was a brief pause on the other end.
The kind people used when they were deciding how badly they were about to ruin your day.
“There’s been an accident.”
The airport noise around me faded into meaningless static.
I stopped walking completely.
“What kind of accident?”
“A vehicle collision involving Miss Bennett and her husband approximately two hours ago.”
No.
My heartbeat stumbled painfully.
“No, there has to be a mistake.”
“I’m afraid not.”
My fingers went numb around my phone.
Chloe couldn’t be hurt. Chloe was chaos wrapped in designer handbags and expensive perfume. She was too loud, too dramatic, too alive for something like this to happen to her.
“Are they okay?” I asked, though my voice barely sounded human anymore.
Another pause.
I hated pauses.
Her husband is currently in surgery,” he said carefully. “Miss Bennett regained consciousness briefly before emergency treatment.”
Relief hit so fast it nearly made me dizzy.
“She’s awake?”
“She was.”
The correction sliced straight through me.
I pressed a trembling hand against my forehead and closed my eyes.
God.
“Before surgery,” he continued gently, “she specifically requested you.”
Emotion rose hard and sudden in my throat.
Chloe and I had practically grown up together after my family imploded. She was the closest thing I had left to a normal life before everything fell apart six years ago.
And now—
“When can I see her?”
“I’m sending the hospital information to your phone now.”
The message came through seconds later.
I stared at the screen numbly.
This morning, my biggest problem was babysitting a reckless hockey player with commitment issues and the impulse control of a raccoon near open trash.
Now my cousin is lying in a hospital bed.
Life really had a sick sense of humor.
My phone buzzed again.
Caleb.
I answered immediately. “Did you know?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I just found out. Ves... are you okay?”
“No,” I admitted honestly as I started walking again. “But apparently emotional collapse isn’t in my schedule today.”
Caleb sighed softly on the other end. “You don’t have to take Jax’s case right now.”
I almost laughed.
“You say that like my landlord accepts emotional distress as a payment method.”
“Keiran—”
“I’m fine.”
It was automatic and meaningless. A reflex at this point.
“You’re not.”
“Probably not,” I admitted, dragging my suitcase through the crowded terminal. “But unless Chloe’s doctors suddenly start accepting motivational speeches instead of money, I still need this job.”
Silence stretched briefly between us.
Then Caleb said carefully, “You know, most people would consider taking on a scandal-ridden hockey player during a family crisis a sign they need therapy.”
“I do need therapy,” I informed him. “What I don’t need is unemployment.”
That finally earned a laugh from him.
“God, I missed you,” he muttered.
Something in my chest tightened painfully.
“Send me Jaxon’s address,” I said softly.
“You’re still going?”
“Yes.”
“Straight from the hospital?”
I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder and stepped outside into the cold evening air.
The city stretched endlessly around me, loud and alive and completely indifferent to the fact that my entire nervous system was currently hanging by a thread.
“Yes,” I said finally. “Because if Varek Ing destroys his career before I get there, I might actually kill him myself.”
- Writer
