Jock Next Bed (BL)
Chapter 180: The Aftermath

Chapter 180: The Aftermath

"Gen Z billionaire heir cusses out reporters and goes viral."

Of course, old photos still surfaced. While renowned reporters and journalists got his threat, bloggers were reckless. They dug out everything—old pictures from his high school days, videos from soccer matches, clips from parties, even race events he had participated in.

However, most of the articles tried to be subtle, using certain pictures and captions to suggest he was reckless, a wild card, unfit for the role, but stopping short of outright condemnation.

Chris was everywhere.

Every single news outlet was covering him. Hot, young, rich, audacious.

But then, the comments were on another level...

"He was THIS close to throwing hands. I just know it."

"The way he talked to them?? ICONIC. I don’t understand any business shit, but I want to buy those stocks and support my future hubby."

"His mom pulling his ear in the middle of a press conference was NOT on my bingo card for this year, but I’m living for it."

"So... he was a badass in high school and the soccer captain? The duality. I stan a wholesome king, bitch!"

"Not the media trying to shade him by digging up his old party pics and it backfiring because now everyone wants to be his friend. Hahaha. Losers."

Young people adored him. Even older people did. It seemed like one of the few times both generations agreed on the same issue.

The way he had cussed people out? His confidence? The sheer audacity?

Instant fan club.

#ChrisOwenGenZKing started trending.

People were making edits of him from past photos and clips they found, all miraculously trooping into the net, and also clips from the press conference moment where he shut down the reporters.

Meme pages had a field day.

Meanwhile, behind closed doors, the company’s stock price?

Soared.

Why? Because young people—who knew absolutely nothing about investing—had rushed to buy stocks just because Chris Owen existed. And because many of them were delusional, they were already imagining he was their future partner.

At this point, even people living in remote villages probably knew his name by now.

This had taken quite a different route than they had all anticipated. No amount of figure calculations, graphs and charts, and emergency board meetings would have been able to fix what Chris had fixed in less than an hour.

Meanwhile, Chris did not care about anything. He didn’t even know where his phone was. He followed his mother. He saw her answer several calls, move about, and give instructions. They also had a meeting. One where he understood nothing. She had asked him to go rest, but he would be an idiot if he did. So he followed. But nothing they said made sense to him.

Finally, Chris was able to see his mother relax a little on their drive back home. They sat at the backseat of the moving car, where she began to quietly doze off. She looked pale and exhausted, her hands resting limply on her lap.

He knew she wanted to go see his father, and God, he wanted to see him too. But Chris had insisted they go home first. His father was unconscious—there was nothing they could do for him now. His mother needed rest.

Chris glanced at her. Even in sleep, her brows were slightly furrowed, as if she couldn’t quite let go of the tension. She looked smaller than usual, more fragile.

He looked away, staring out the window.

The words from the press conference replayed in his mind like a broken record.

"Did your family influence your admission?"

"Did you steal someone else’s spot?"

He hated that it stuck to him. That even after standing his ground, this was the one thing that refused to leave him alone.

By the time they arrived home, exhaustion had settled deep in his bones. His mother stirred as the car stopped, blinking groggily.

Chris didn’t say much as they stepped inside. The house was quiet, too big and too empty. Yes, it was mostly always empty, but now it was a different kind of empty without his father’s presence.

They walked toward their separate rooms, but just as his mother was about to turn away, he hesitated—then spoke.

"Mom."

She stopped, turning back to him.

Chris hesitated for a second, then forced himself to ask, "Did you and Dad... buy my admission?"

His mother blinked. The question hung between them, thick and heavy.

Chris felt his stomach twist. The silence stretched too long.

And then—her expression shifted.

It wasn’t shock. It wasn’t offense.

It was apology.

Chris felt his breath hitch, and his hands suddenly became sweaty. Very sweaty.

She wasn’t saying anything. Why wasn’t she saying anything?

His mind began to spiral.

She looks sorry. Why does she look sorry?

His throat went dry. His fingers clenched at his sides.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, waiting, his heart pounding against his ribs.

Then, finally, she exhaled and spoke.

"No, Chris," she said softly.

Chris barely registered the breath he released, his hands shaking.

She stepped closer, eyes filled with quiet guilt. "I won’t lie to you. I wanted to. Tried to."

His chest tightened.

"I couldn’t stand the thought of you being rejected again. You were struggling so much, and I..." She paused, closing her eyes briefly before looking at him again. "But your father advised against it. He told me you needed to earn it. That you would earn it. He said if we had to help you get into a small, almost unknown university, then you wouldn’t be an Owen."

Chris swallowed hard.

"So I didn’t," she said firmly. "We didn’t. I promise you, Chris—you got in because you deserved it. And I am so proud of you."

Chris released a shaky breath.

He didn’t realize he had tears dropping from his eyes until he felt the warmth trailing down his cheeks.

He let out a soft, shaky laugh, pressing his hands against his face as the relief crashed into him all at once.

His mother reached for him, pulling him into a hug.

And Chris let her.