Chapter 5 Chapter 5. TRISTAN MCKENNA (POV)

⋅ ₊ ⋅ TRISTAN MCKENNA (P.O.V) ⋅ ₊ ⋅

I look Alisson up and down, the same long brown hair falling over her shoulders and glasses perched on that little nose, framing those brown eyes that try way too hard not to look nervous. 

Six months later, and she looks almost exactly the same. 

Still so fucking soft. 

And I hate that this is the first thing I notice.

I force my attention back to her face, to all the words she said. That alone should be enough to bury whatever bullshit reflex my body still has. But apparently, muscle memory really is a bitch.

“Heh, is that right?” A low, rough chuckle rumbles in my throat, but there’s nothing funny about this shit. “You sure about that, Alisson?”

Her name comes out deliberately slow, as I watch her breath leave her. Maybe she’s wondering when her name became familiar on my tongue. 

“…Do you really want to share the same roof with a violent maniac for weeks?”

There it is… Alisson’s face loses color so fucking fast it would almost be funny if I weren’t pissed off.

She doesn’t say anything, of course. All that talking she was doing before, all that confidence when she thought I wasn’t around to hear it, and now there’s fucking nothing. 

Her lips part, but no sound comes out, letting the silence stretch between us, thick enough that I can practically hear the pieces fall into place uselessly inside her head.

But it was her words, not mine. And judging by the way she’s staring at me now, she knows damn well I heard them, and she’s wondering how much.

Let her fucking sweat.

The silence stretches, and I do nothing to save her from it. I’m perfectly comfortable letting her stand there and choke on it. 

I keep my eyes on hers, watching every little reaction she tries and fails to hide—the tension in her shoulders, the shallow breathing, the way she suddenly seems painfully aware of where to put her hands.

Then, finally, Smith lets out one of those forced laughs people use to dismiss the elephant in the room. 

“No one here thinks you’re a violent maniac, McKenna. We know those internet rumors are ridiculous lies.”

The corner of my mouth pulls upward.

Yeah, sure.

“Yeah?” I draw out the sound as I stare at her, tired of this stupid thing, of Smith, of strangers deciding they know what kind of man I am because they watched a fucking clip online or saw a picture. “You don’t think that, Alisson?”

Every eye in the room turns toward her, and even her brother looks at Alisson, silently begging her not to fuck this up, while Smith waits with that interested expression. 

“No.” She swallows hard, and my eyes catch the movement of her throat. A low, unwanted tightening in my gut makes irritation crawl up the back of my neck. “I—I think the internet blows things out of proportion. People say stuff in the heat of the moment without really thinking it through.”

I feel a laugh stuck in my throat, not because it’s funny, but because she’s fucking terrible at this. The lie is written all over her face, in the forced steadiness of her voice, and especially in the way she can barely look at me now.

Apparently, I’m a violent maniac until I’m standing three feet away, and she has to say it to my face.

But she still tries to smile, even if it looks fake as hell.

Smith suddenly claps his hands once, loud enough to make her flinch, as he says: “Alisson is right. People on the internet are being swayed by baseless lies about you. That’s why this show is so important, McKenna… It’s your chance to show them you’re not the person they claim you are!”

“I don’t need that shit.” I finally tear my eyes away from her and look at the producer. I’ve had enough of this fucking circus. “You just said they’re baseless lies, didn’t you? This will blow over soon. Everyone will forget about it when another celebrity screws up. Isn’t that how it works?”

“Tristan…” Logan starts in his calm, reasonable tone.

But that’s a fucking wrong move, because I look at him, barely able to restrain my bad mood. 

“Do you think it’s a good idea to make me live with her?” I gesture toward Alisson without looking at her, not hiding my contempt. 

I mean, after everything—after making it clear what she thinks of me, looking at me like I’m some garbage that meant anything—now she wants to help me look decent? 

“That’s really your idea of cleaning up my image? Pair me with someone who already sees me as gutter trash?”

“I don’t think that.” Instead of shrinking back, she squares her shoulders, crosses her arms, and lifts her chin.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

I also cross my arms and finally look at her again, waiting for Alisson to explain what the hell she calls it, then. But she just frowns at me. 

“You’re being rude.” She calls me off, her voice growing sharp, exactly how I remember. “How do you expect to convince people otherwise with that attitude?”

Logan’s eyes widen, while mine narrow dangerously. 

She thinks I’m some violent piece of shit, but has the nerve to tell me I need to behave nicely enough to convince everybody else that I’m not? 

So that’s how she wants to play this? Fine then let’s play—

“YES!” Smith suddenly blurts out, making both of us flinch slightly and turn toward him at the same time. “That’s it!”

What the fuck is he yelling about?

“You were right, Logan… Alisson is perfect for this!”

“What?” The word leaves my mouth at the same moment it leaves hers, and I turn my head just enough to catch the disbelief on her face before looking back at Smith. 

Perfect? For what? Pissing me off?

“You’re buying this girl’s bullshit act?”

“Excuse me?” Alisson gasps beside me.

“I’m not seeing an act!” Smith’s smile widens in a way I don’t fucking like. I know that look. He’s just realized exactly how much money he can squeeze from this mess. “I’m not seeing scripts… I’m seeing truth… The kind of thing the audience will eat up.”

“My life isn’t a fucking spectacle.” The words snap out before I bother controlling them, and I turn fully toward Smith, arms still crossed, my body rigid with the effort of staying exactly where I am. “What matters is what I do on the ice. Not off it.”

“That’s true,” Smith says, nodding like he’s humoring me. “But if you want a real shot at being a pro with serious sponsors, rather than being reduced to an NIL ‘promising name’ and a star who burned out too fast, you’re going to need a lot more than talent.”

My teeth grind together as I stare at him because Smith knows exactly where to stick the knife—nationals, sponsors, my career. All the shit I’ve worked my ass off for while people like him sit behind desks, deciding whether I’m marketable enough to deserve it.

For one ugly second, I want to tell him to shove the whole thing up his ass. But then the words ‘burned out too fast’ settle somewhere they shouldn’t.

My chest rises with one slow breath.

“So that’s it?” My voice comes out lower now, but it doesn’t sound calmer. If anything, it makes every word feel sharper. “The price is my damn privacy?”

“We don’t want to sell your privacy, Tristan… we want to give you the best opportunity…” Logan tries to explain softly, but I cut him off.

“Opportunity to make millions of people think I’m a lunatic?”

“One to prove them wrong.” Smith tilts his head, holding my gaze. “But of course… that depends entirely on you.”

Weeks living under the same roof with her for the sake of my career?

Well, fuck me.