Every December [Soon to be Self Published]

Chapter 14

Lydia

My butt is glued to the couch and I watch the press conference with knots sitting like lead in my stomach. The room is buzzing with reporters. It's a regular feeding frenzy which matches the jagged breaths skipping through my chest. An empty table with a microphone sits in front of the hotel media logo with the words Pro Swing intermixed. Shouts and cameras click. My stomach turns as he appears and a gasp leaves my mouth. 

A.J. steals my breath for all the wrong reasons. Embarrassment impales me with humiliation. Here I had been stubborn about giving into him. Dressed in a button-down shirt and his thick hair combed to the side, he causes my heart to leap and crash. Hot angry tears prick my eyes and my heart hammers wildly.

I'm like the rest of the world, watching him take a seat at the table and slide the microphone closer.

This is who he really is.

Shoulders rounded, body leaning forward, eyes that I fall for every time he walks into a room. I'm not sure I watch. I'm old enough to know that I allowed myself to be in the dark about who he is.

Still, I can't tear my eyes away from the television.

The voices in the audience hush and cameras click.

"This isn't how I expected to spend my vacation," A.J. says with a low voice, nowhere near as intimate when he had whispered, I want this. "I'm here to clarify a few events that have recently taken place."

"Where were you the night of the Gold Circle Trophy gala?" a reporter shouts.

An irritated tick moves in A.J.'s jaw. "That night, I left my house driving too fast. There was ice on the road and I lost control of the vehicle."

Someone asks a question, the voice too low to make out the words.

Austin nods and leans into the microphone. "I suffered only a minor concussion and some bruised ribs. I was fortunate it wasn't worse."

"Who found you?" a reporter shouts.

Austin's demeanor changes. The collected, smooth-talking voice hardens. "A helpful bystander. Someone who happened to be driving near the site of the accident."

"Can we get a name?" another asks.

"No," he says unequivocally. "The person who found me prefers to remain anonymous and I wish to respect their privacy. I ask you to do the same."

"Have you been in contact with this person?"

"Yes," he says shortly.

"Did you offer this person reward money?"

"I'm not going to answer that," he deflects, quickly sweeping the question away.

"Would that person contradict any reports that alcohol wasn't involved?"

A.J. looks into the camera. A jolt of unease hits me square in the stomach. Please don't say my name. My breath holds in my chest, anxiety swirling and flicking like a wick set to be lit. I saved him because I was there. I stayed with him in the days after because he needed help, not because I hoped to get something.

A.J.'s eyes stay with the camera. "This person would tell you the truth. I have nothing to hide about the accident."

Except hide who you are from me. A.J. might have said that for me, but it doesn't change anything. The energy in my chest, in my stomach, in the base of my breath is so charged that a lone tear releases and slides down my cheek. That doesn't make this any easier.

"Austin!" a reporter shouts. "Have you spoken to Brielle about the baby?"

The.

Baby.