Page 25 of Omega’s Forward

I move an inch. He moves considerably more than an inch. His arm comes around behind me to steady the shot and his hand lands on my shoulder as if it has been there a hundred times.

The photo takes. The app chimes. Neither of us moves.

He looks down at me. At my mouth, to be precise about it. Drunk men are not subtle. “Everett,” he says, low, and it is nothing at all like the way he says Mr. Rourke.

“It’s sent,” I say. “Good night.”

He doesn’t move, and for one long stupid second, neither do I. The heat is coming off him all down my side and my body is voting against me and I am close enough to count his eyelashes.

I put my hand flat on his chest and push. It takes more out of me than I will ever admit to anyone — and he goes. That’s the thing about him. He goes at once, backwards into the hallway, hands coming up like I’ve called a penalty.

“Good night, Mr. Callahan.”

I close the door on whatever he has started to say and stand there with my back against it until his footsteps go away.

Then I lie in the dark for a long time, wide awake, not thinking about his hands. Failing at it.

*

Priya sent it to me while I was sleeping. The clip has been watched two million times before I get out of bed.

I watch it sitting on the edge of the guest bed in a T-shirt. It’s been taken in a bad light, a phone held too low, the sound of a bar behind it, but it’s definitely Callahan.

Somebody off camera asks how’s the new Rourke.

Then the son of a bitch says, “At least the old Rourke had our backs.”

He looks straight into the phone when he says it. Then a deep voice off to the side says “That’s us, thanks, lads,” and it ends.

I watch it more than once. Callahan is drunk. That’s obvious. Not falling down drunk, but there’s a slowness to his words that gives the game away.

The words hurt more than they should. Of course, I’ll have their back. I’m not soulless, but there’s a world of difference between having their back and turning a blind eye.

The whole code thing is so immature. It feels like having to parent a bunch of squabbling kids. I don’t care who started it. You’re not allowed to hit each other in the face. Except they’re not kids, they’re grown alphas.

Calls start coming in from eight-thirty. I set my phone to divert to Priya and she handles most of them: all the sponsors and the media ones. I spend a little time talking to someone from the league office who wants to discuss our response so we can handle any media queries.

We go back and forth a few times and finally agree that the club has no official comment and that unofficially Mr. Callahan was speaking privately about my father, whom he was fond of. There is no dispute between the captain and the ownership. I look forward to seeing the team play later.

That last sentence came out of my mouth on its own and now I am going to a hockey game.

I get dressed and go down the hall.

He is at the kitchen counter eating something out of a bowl standing up. I stop in the doorway further back than I need to.

He takes one look at my face and says, “You’ve seen it.”

“Two million people have seen it. I’ve been taking calls all morning.”

He shrugs, then puts the bowl down.

“Well?” I say.

“Well what?”

“This is the part where you tell me it was out of context, or you’d had a few, or that you didn’t know they were filming.”

“I knew they were filming.”