Chapter 4 Violent Maniac

CHAPTER 4

JEREMY’S POV

There were a lot of places I didn't want to be.

I didn't want to be here.

I wanted to be at the rink. Empty ice, no one talking, just movement until my brain finally shut up. Instead, I was here, sitting in Damon's office, waiting for the civilian he had found at the last minute while trying to remember why I had even agreed to this.

Damon. That was why.

He had sat across from me, giving me reasons why I had to do this, and after a long agonizing hour, I realized arguing was pointless, so I agreed.

I still thought the backlash would fade. It always did. The internet had a short memory, and once something new happened, nobody was going to care about one punch at a college hockey game. I knew what I'd seen. I knew why I did it. That was enough.

But Damon had said, “Just give it two weeks,” and I trusted Damon more than I trusted my own judgment about what the public wanted from me. So here I was. In a small chair. In an office that smelled like printer ink and cold coffee, waiting.

The door opened.

I didn't look up right away, but I heard her before I saw her. She paused at the door, shoulders tensed as she looked around both of us.

Finally decided to grace us with her presence, isn't it?

Then Damon said, "Audrey, come in," and I looked up.

Brown hair. Glasses. A coat she hadn't taken off yet, as though she expected a shower of rain in the office. She looked like a bio major, if I had to guess— something about the way she carried herself, a little distracted, like part of her brain was always somewhere else running calculations.

She looked at me, and I looked back at her.

And I knew exactly who she was.

It took me a second to place it because I hadn't seen her face well that night — just her voice and the back of her head, and the specific way she'd said “Violent maniac” like she was reporting weather. But standing here now, something about her clicked. The way she was already bracing herself. The slight lift of her chin, as if she was deciding how to handle a situation before the situation had fully started.

Yeah. It was her.

But I didn't say anything.

Damon started doing introductions before moving into logistics and explaining how everything was going to be for the next two weeks. I nodded where it made sense to nod. She was doing the same thing, arms crossed a little, doing a decent job of looking like she was paying attention and not actively calculating her exit.

Then Damon said something about an autograph, and she straightened up. First real reaction I'd seen from her.

"For my friend," she said, like she needed to explain it. "She's a fan."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a poster. I struggled to hold back a wince. It was a picture of the team last winter. I hated it. Mostly because the photographer had told me to smile, and I ended up doing something that looked painfully like a warning.

Damon slid a pen across the desk. I picked it up and looked at the photo. Then at her.

"Just her?" I said.

"Yes."

"You're not a fan?"

"No."

Honest, at least. I almost appreciated it.

I signed it and held the poster back out. She reached for it, and I didn't let go right away— not long, just a beat— and said, "You could've just asked for yourself."

"It's not for me." She took the picture back and tucked it away. "I don't really follow hockey."

"Right." I leaned back. "So you just go to games for fun."

Something flickered across her face.

Ah, she knew I saw her.

"I was doing a friend a favor," she said.

"Mm." I looked at her. Neither of us moved. "She must be a good friend. Since you went out of your way. Stayed for the whole game. Called me a—" I tilted my head slightly — "what was it?

The color that hit her face was immediate. She opened her mouth and closed it.

Damon looked up from his folder.

"A violent maniac," I said, helpfully. "I think that's what it was. Violent maniac. With a temper problem." I paused. "Big red flag, I think you said."

The silence was very loud.

She recovered faster than I expected. Squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and said, "I didn't know anyone could hear that."

"Clearly."

"And I was— I mean, from where I was standing, it looked—"

"It looked like what?"

She pressed her lips together. I could see her working through it — the pride fighting the practicality, the practicality winning by a narrow margin.

"It looked bad," she said finally. "I didn't have context."

"No," I agreed. "You didn't."

Damon had gone very still. Clearly not aware that we had met before. And on bad terms.

She took a breath. And then she said, slowly, like each word cost her something, "You're clearly…a very skilled player. The game was impressive. I can see why you have such a dedicated fanbase."

It was the stiffest, most pained compliment I'd ever received in my life.

My jaw tightened, and I stared at her. She wasn't looking at me; her face was twisted as though this was the worst task she'd ever had to do.

"That's what you've got?" I said.

"That's what I've got." She repeated.

"Skilled player," I repeated. "Impressive game."

"Yes."

“I've heard better from my ex.”

"I watched the whole game," she said, her voice sharper now, the politeness slipping a little. "I was there for three hours. In the nosebleed section. In the cold. For someone else's benefit." She picked up her bag from the floor. "So yes, I think skilled and impressive are perfectly adequate words."

Okay. That was fair, actually.

"The autograph's signed," I said.

"I have it, I'm not blind.”

"You're welcome."

Damon jumped back in— something about the filming schedule, the first day, what time they needed us both ready. I half listened. I was thinking about the parking lot again. The crack of something hitting the ground. The way I'd kept walking and told myself it wasn't my problem. I had heard her words, the ones where she had it on camera. Well…I did something impulsive and tripped her. But she didn't have to know that.

"Any questions?" Damon asked, looking between us.

She shook her head.

I shook mine.

"Great." He clapped his hands, looking slightly relieved about the whole thing. "This is going to be good. I really think this is going to be good."

Neither of us said anything to that.

She was already moving toward the door, coat still on, and the autograph somewhere in her bag.

Clean exit. She was good at those, I could tell — the kind of person who planned how to leave a room before they even finished entering it.

She had almost made it out when I said, "Hey."

She stopped and turned halfway.

I kept my voice even. "Tell your friend I said thanks for the support."

A pause. Something moved across her face for just a second.

"Sure," she said. "I'll tell her."

And then she left.

I leaned back against the chair, barely listening as Damon started to go over the whole thing again.

Like I didn't know.

Violent maniac.

I'd remember that.