Chapter 5 Violent maniac
I feel the blood draining from my face.
If the words were stuck in my throat before, theyâve simply disappeared now. They evaporated the moment Tristan filled the silence. But in the next second, it settles again, heavier, more suffocating, making my heartbeat pound even louder in my ears.
âŠWhat?
Violent maniac.
Each word lands like a punch to the stomachâwords I never thought Iâd hear coming from him. And yet, heâs repeating them, as if he heard exactly what I said.
But thatâs not possible, right?
Thereâs no way he couldâve overheard my conversation with LeahâŠ
Time stretches for seconds longer than it should. At least, thatâs how it feels. Like everything stopped. Like the world stopped spinning. Like everyone disappeared, and itâs just Tristan and me. But not in a good way. Not in that foolish idea of butterflies in your stomach. Thereâs only anxiety. The kind that tightens your gut and makes you wonder why life is so damn unfair.
But weâre not alone. Mr. Smith makes sure to remind me of that, with a forced laugh that triesâand fails miserablyâto ease the tension.
âNo one here thinks youâre a violent maniac, McKenna,â he says with a dismissive wave, as if the idea is absurd. âWe know those internet rumors are ridiculous lies.â
The corner of Tristanâs mouth lifts into something beyond a smile. Itâs brief, dry, almost a silent provocation. He doesnât take his eyes off me for a second.
Heâs waiting⊠because he knows exactly the effect he has.
I swallow hard, my throat scraping. My hands are cold and damp, and Iâm painfully aware of my body, of the way Iâm standing, stiff, shoulders tense, breathing too shallow to look normal.
âMmm?â he murmurs, his voice low and drawn out, carrying a kind of exhaustion that doesnât match the rigidity of his shoulders. âYou donât think that, Alisson?â
Just like that, all eyes are on me. Not just his dangerously green ones, slightly narrowed and coldly controlled, locked onto mine, but also Mr. Smithâs, brown and curious, faintly lined at the corners. And especially my brotherâs, wide and pleading, begging me to say the opposite of whatâs running through my head.
âNo.â My voice comes out thin, strained, too fake. A thread about to snap under the weight of the lie. But a single word doesnât seem enough, because they keep staring, waiting for something more sincere, more convincing. âIâI think the internet tends to exaggerate things. People say things in the heat of the moment. Sometimes they donât really think it through.â
Oh my God, I sound like a hypocrite. I feel like one. A liar.
I can barely look at him without remembering how his fist connected with the jaw of the guy whoâs supposedly his best friend, so how am I supposed to sound convincing?
Mr. Smith is right. How am I supposed to convince thousands of people watching a reality show that Tristan McKenna is different when I donât even believe it myself?
Even so, I force a smile that obviously looks fake and out of place⊠but to my genuine relief, itâs enough for the CEO to clap his hands once, cutting through the tension. Iâm grateful, even if it makes me flinch slightly.
âAlisson is right. People on the internet are being swayed by baseless lies about you. Thatâs why this show is so important, McKenna. Itâs your chance to show them youâre not the person they claim you are.â
âI donât need that shit.â He finally tears his eyes away from me and turns them toward the CEO, his harsh tone sending a chill through me. âYou just said theyâre baseless lies, didnât you? This will blow over soon. Everyone will forget about it when another celebrity screws up. Isnât that how it works?â
âTristanâŠâ Logan tries to step in, his tone calm and persuasive, but that only draws Tristanâs contained anger toward his agent.
âI already told you this idea is stupid, Logan. And you think itâs a good idea to make me live with this?â He gestures toward me without looking at me.
This.
The word stings⊠but I donât shrink like Iâve been burned. Not like I usually would. I donât know what gets into me. I square my shoulders, cross my arms, and lift my chin instead of lowering it.
ââŠSomeone who clearly hates me. Thatâs your idea of cleaning up my image? Pair me with someone who already sees me as gutter trash?â
âI donât hate you.â That part is true. Hate is a strong word. It requires the other person to have some kind of power over youâenough to get under your skin and hit your nerves. Tristan doesnât have that. Itâs just a strong dislike.
He crosses his arms as well, waiting.
âYouâre being rude,â I frown. âHow do you expect to convince people otherwise with that attitude?â
Loganâs eyes widen at me, but I donât have time to regret what I said because Tristan is already looking at me again. Really looking.
And my bravery crumbles like a sandcastle.
I donât need words to know exactly whatâs going through McKennaâs head. He knows. He heard what I said to Leah on the phone. And I donât know what makes me want to disappear moreâhim knowing what I really think when Iâm supposed to pretend to clean up his image⊠or the fact that he saw me fall pathetically on the sidewalk.
But what truly unsettles me is the way his eyes narrow, like theyâre saying, So thatâs how you want to play?
âYes⊠Thatâs it!â Mr. Smith suddenly says, making both of us flinch slightly and look at him at the same time. âYou were right, Logan⊠Alisson is perfect for this!â
âWhat?â We say at the same time, but Tristan looks almost offended.
âYouâre buying this girlâs bullshit act?â
âExcuse me?â I gasp.
âIâm not seeing an act!â The CEOâs wolfish smile widens. âIâm not seeing scripts⊠Iâm seeing truth⊠The kind of thing the audience will eat up.â
âMy life isnât a fucking spectacle,â Tristan snaps, and for a moment, I think heâs going to explode again, go after the CEO and show him that wild side, too⊠But he stays put, arms crossed, body turned toward the man, his focus so intense that nothing else exists but the two of them. âWhat matters is what I do on the ice. Not off it.â
âThatâs true,â Mr. Smith nods. âBut if you want a real shot at Nationals with serious sponsors, rather than being reduced to a âpromising nameâ and a star who burned out too fast, youâre going to need a lot more than talent.â
Tristanâs jaw tightens, teeth clenching in a way thatâs almost imperceptible to anyone not paying attention, but I am. Damn it, Iâm paying way too much attention. His chest rises in a slower, more controlled breath, like heâs holding something back that wants to break free.
And for a moment⊠his green eyes falter. Not completely, but enough. Something raw flickers through them, too quick to name but intense enough to make me forget to breathe⊠and then itâs gone, replaced by that calculated ice that seems to follow him off the rink.
âSo thatâs it?â Tristanâs voice comes out lower now, but no less dangerous, just more⊠contained. âThe price is my damn privacy?â
âWe donât want to sell your privacy, Tristan⊠we want to give you the best opportunityâŠâ Logan tries to explain softly.
âOpportunity to make millions of people think Iâm a lunatic?â he shoots back flatly.
âNo⊠One to prove them wrong.â Mr. Smith tilts his head, firm. âBut of course⊠that depends entirely on you.â
