Falling Forward ✔

Chapter Thirty-Four - Bastien

A girl named Stacy is brushing powder under my eyes. I knew a live interview wouldn't be a cakewalk, but seriously, make-up? Bad enough I'm about to bare my soul in front of a few million TV viewers and internet streamers. Shoot me.

Alan strides into the room, clapping his hands together. "Ready?"

"Uh-huh." What's the alternative? I promised Jolet Montai I'd do her stupid interview. And if there's even the slightest chance Reece will see it, I'll make it happen.

The PR guy leads me to a sound stage. A plush couch and matching chair sit facing three dozen cameras. Just beyond is about a million dollars' worth of broadcasting junk.

Isn't that cute.

The stitches in my brow, just beside the piercing, have another few days before they're ready to come out. Stacy styled, teased, and sprayed my overgrown hair to cover it. She even hides the vague bruising – I look like a new man. Not the train wreck Claude dredged from the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

I'm wearing my Cyclones jersey over dark jeans and scuffed boots. Alan's idea – shows comradery with the team, makes me seem confident. The exact opposite of how I feel. That's probably a first for me.

"This is you," Alan gestures to the stool on the left, and I take a seat. "Remember, look at Jolet or at the camera. This one." He points at a camera just a few feet to the right of where my interviewer will sit.

I don't normally mind attention from the media. I'm well known for flirting with the camera and photographer. Between press conferences and community events, I'm no stranger to looking into a lens and smiling. Cocky hockey player with an outstanding score record and phenomenal season.

Today, I feel like a fraud and a failure. I'm bringing attention to a horrible truth. Telling a story that will affect countless women nationwide.

"Bastien!" Jolet Montai appears, dressed in a killer sheath dress and nude pumps that showcase her smooth, dark skin. She's the epitome of feminine power. "Good to see you." She shakes my hand and sits. "How are you feeling? Ready to answer a few questions?"

"Sure," I lie, stretching my arms out on the couch. "I read the list."

"Anything off limits?"

"No." Alan warned me about the list of supposed questions – guidelines, but she doesn't have to follow it. The contract I signed permits me the grace of silence, but only if Alan or I flag the segments first. Otherwise, anything is fair game.

Worse, the interview is live, so I can't exactly say, "Fuck off," and let the techys edit out the segment.

"Fantastic!" She flashes a perfect smile. "Shall we begin?"

A producer flits around, telling us about time and camera angles. I try and pay attention, but I'm wondering what Reece is doing now, whether she'll see this interview tonight. I picture her smile, the piercing in her nose glittering when she laughs. I hope wherever she is, she's happy.

"Rolling," the producer says, and gestures to Jolet.

My interviewer pivots toward the camera. "I'm here tonight with local sensation Bastien Killfeather, forward and co-captain of the Cincinnati Cyclones..."

Her introduction continues, the kitschy crap you can find on a Google search. Still, my face freezes into an uncomfortable mask, the self-assured grin and blasé set of my shoulders a thin shield. I feel like such a tool, talking about my career when the real issue has yet to be broached.

At least she starts off with featherweight questions. "You come from a large family, right?"

"Yes." I say easily. "Six kids, parents still married."