Chapter 5 Violent maniac

I feel the blood draining from my face.

If the words were stuck in my throat before, they’ve 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.

…What?

Violent maniac.

Each word lands like a punch to the stomach—words I never thought I’d hear coming from him. And yet, he’s repeating them, as if he heard exactly what I said.

But that’s not possible, right?

There’s no way he could’ve overheard my conversation with Leah…

Time stretches for seconds longer than it should. At least, that’s how it feels. Like everything stopped. Like the world stopped spinning. Like everyone disappeared, and it’s just Tristan and me. But not in a good way. Not in that foolish idea of butterflies in your stomach. There’s only anxiety. The kind that tightens your gut and makes you wonder why life is so damn unfair.

But we’re not alone. Mr. Smith makes sure to remind me of that, with a forced laugh that tries—and fails miserably—to ease the tension.

ā€œNo one here thinks you’re a violent maniac, McKenna,ā€ he says with a dismissive wave, as if the idea is absurd. ā€œWe know those internet rumors are ridiculous lies.ā€

The corner of Tristan’s mouth lifts into something beyond a smile. It’s brief, dry, almost a silent provocation. He doesn’t take his eyes off me for a second.

He’s waiting… because he knows exactly the effect he has.

I swallow hard, my throat scraping. My hands are cold and damp, and I’m painfully aware of my body, of the way I’m standing, stiff, shoulders tense, breathing too shallow to look normal.

ā€œMmm?ā€ he murmurs, his voice low and drawn out, carrying a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t match the rigidity of his shoulders. ā€œYou don’t think that, Alisson?ā€

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. Smith’s, brown and curious, faintly lined at the corners. And especially my brother’s, wide and pleading, begging me to say the opposite of what’s running through my head.

ā€œNo.ā€ My voice comes out thin, strained, too fake. A thread about to snap under the weight of the lie. But a single word doesn’t seem enough, because they keep staring, waiting for something more sincere, more convincing. ā€œI—I think the internet tends to exaggerate things. People say things in the heat of the moment. Sometimes they don’t really think it through.ā€

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 who’s 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 don’t even believe it myself?

Even so, I force a smile that obviously looks fake and out of place… but to my genuine relief, it’s enough for the CEO to clap his hands once, cutting through the tension. I’m grateful, even if it makes me flinch slightly.

ā€œAlisson 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.ā€

ā€œI don’t need that shit.ā€ He finally tears his eyes away from me and turns them toward the CEO, his harsh tone sending a chill through me. ā€œYou 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?ā€

ā€œTristanā€¦ā€ Logan tries to step in, his tone calm and persuasive, but that only draws Tristan’s contained anger toward his agent.

ā€œI already told you this idea is stupid, Logan. And you think it’s a good idea to make me live with this?ā€ He gestures toward me without looking at me.

This.

The word stings… but I don’t shrink like I’ve been burned. Not like I usually would. I don’t know what gets into me. I square my shoulders, cross my arms, and lift my chin instead of lowering it.

ā€œā€¦Someone who clearly hates me. That’s your idea of cleaning up my image? Pair me with someone who already sees me as gutter trash?ā€

ā€œI don’t hate you.ā€ That part is true. Hate is a strong word. It requires the other person to have some kind of power over you—enough to get under your skin and hit your nerves. Tristan doesn’t have that. It’s just a strong dislike.

He crosses his arms as well, waiting.

ā€œYou’re being rude,ā€ I frown. ā€œHow do you expect to convince people otherwise with that attitude?ā€

Logan’s eyes widen at me, but I don’t 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 don’t need words to know exactly what’s going through McKenna’s head. He knows. He heard what I said to Leah on the phone. And I don’t know what makes me want to disappear more—him knowing what I really think when I’m 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 they’re saying, So that’s how you want to play?

ā€œYes… That’s it!ā€ Mr. Smith suddenly says, making both of us flinch slightly and look at him at the same time. ā€œYou were right, Logan… Alisson is perfect for this!ā€

ā€œWhat?ā€ We say at the same time, but Tristan looks almost offended.

ā€œYou’re buying this girl’s bullshit act?ā€

ā€œExcuse me?ā€ I gasp.

ā€œI’m not seeing an act!ā€ The CEO’s wolfish smile widens. ā€œI’m not seeing scripts… I’m seeing truth… The kind of thing the audience will eat up.ā€

ā€œMy life isn’t a fucking spectacle,ā€ Tristan snaps, and for a moment, I think he’s 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. ā€œWhat matters is what I do on the ice. Not off it.ā€

ā€œThat’s true,ā€ Mr. Smith nods. ā€œBut if you want a real shot at Nationals with serious sponsors, rather than being reduced to a ā€˜promising name’ and a star who burned out too fast, you’re going to need a lot more than talent.ā€

Tristan’s jaw tightens, teeth clenching in a way that’s almost imperceptible to anyone not paying attention, but I am. Damn it, I’m paying way too much attention. His chest rises in a slower, more controlled breath, like he’s 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 it’s gone, replaced by that calculated ice that seems to follow him off the rink.

ā€œSo that’s it?ā€ Tristan’s voice comes out lower now, but no less dangerous, just more… contained. ā€œThe price is my damn privacy?ā€

ā€œWe don’t want to sell your privacy, Tristan… we want to give you the best opportunityā€¦ā€ Logan tries to explain softly.

ā€œOpportunity to make millions of people think I’m a lunatic?ā€ he shoots back flatly.

ā€œNo… One to prove them wrong.ā€ Mr. Smith tilts his head, firm. ā€œBut of course… that depends entirely on you.ā€

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