Strike (Sphere of Irony 2)
“Dax.”
“Yeah?” Turning, I see the absolute misery on Kate’s face. Fear drops into my stomach like a lead brick. I sit next to her on the bed, pulling her into my arms. “What’s going on? Do you know about these calls? I was about to ring Gavin.”
“It’s just that… well, yesterday before I saw you…”
Kate is biting into her lip, nervously twisting her hair into a knot over and over. She jumps up, hurrying into the bathroom. When she returns, her hair is in a perfect ponytail. She’s freaking out.
“Kate, you’re scaring me. What happened?” My heart is racing and that damn instinct to hurt someone floods my body.
Rule 5—Defend what’s yours.
The urge to protect Kate, to shield her from whatever she’s frightened of is so strong I nearly yell just to get her to tell me who it is I’ll have to kill.
“When I left my match yesterday, the media…” She lets the sentence hang unfinished because the rest is obvious.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, “they found you.”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. Tell me everything.”
Once Kate is done explaining her run in with a mob of journalists that for the most part assaulted her, I’m seeing red. We’ve been so careful, not wanting Kate’s name to get out to the press. In interviews I say I’m in a relationship if asked, but that’s the most I’ll disclose. Neither Kate nor myself wanted the shitstorm that would descend if they found out who she was. Now it’s too late.
“C’mon,” I say to Kate, pulling her to her feet.
“Where? What are we doing?”
“Get dressed. We’re going to my flat. I want to use my laptop to see what is being said. Yours is too slow, angel.”
I hurry into my jeans and yank my shirt on, impatient for Kate to do the same. After a few minutes, she gets tired of me following her around the room, nagging her to move faster, and explodes.
“Dax, stop rushing me! I have to get my bloody clothes on. Go call Gavin.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I want to read it myself first. I don’t want to hear second-hand. It will only make me angry with whoever is telling me.”
Kate pulls a face, but finishes brushing her teeth and puts her shoes on. “I’m ready.”
“Right, let’s go.”
Kate
Dax Davies.
A man of so many contradictions. With the rare exception being the guys in the band and myself—and even then it’s only occasionally—he keeps his emotions shuttered in so tight it’d take a freaking crowbar and a sledgehammer to chip away at that stoic façade. Yet when upset, thrown headfirst into that protective fight mode from his days in the cage, anyone can read the pure, lethal fury on his face. Even when it’s hidden behind that blank stare.
Like right now.
“Fucking bastard cunts,” he hisses along with a slew of other shocking profanities that fall from his lips as he pulls up website after website detailing my encounter with the paparazzi yesterday.
As Dax skims each one, I read over his shoulder, my hands trembling, tears pressing at the back of my eyes. I can feel the shame flooding my skin, prickling hot up my neck as I see each headline.
“Is Dax Davies Cheating on Lila Griffin with Co-Ed?”
“Love Triangle Involving Rock Star, Hollywood Heiress, and UCLA Student.”
“Soccer Standout Breaks Up Couple on the Verge of Stardom.”
Swallowing down the bile that’s crept up my