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He doesn’t move. He doesn’t fight back. He sneers and shakes his head with disdain.
I lean in. “I’m gonna wipe that fucking smirk off your face.”
Nothing.
I rear my fist back, and pandemonium erupts. I’m restrained and struggle against an arm around my throat, pressing into my windpipe, and hands clutching my arms and shirt.
Grant gets in my face, his expression mirroring the same hatred I see in everyone else.
I scoff. “You’d seriously defend him over me? What a fucking joke.”
Ethan stands behind Grant, chest heaving and fists balled. I bet he wouldn’t hesitate to take a shot if given the opportunity. I wouldn’t mind the unconsciousness, a respite from this shitstorm.
I raise my chin. “Hit me. Fucking do it.”
He ignores my taunts. Instead, his words strike me with the force of a sledgehammer. “No one had to tell Aurora anything, you fucking idiot. It’s all over the internet. You’re fucking done.”
Ice flows through my veins, rage shifting to panic. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
A dark storm rages in my mind, and my body trembles with fear.
What the fuck did I do? I blacked out.
“Why don’t you sit down, shut up, and figure it out while the rest of us prepare for the game?” Ethan switches to coach mode, walks away, and ends the confrontation.
Gone is the man who kneeled beside me yesterday, patient and concerned. The man who spent nights with me on the ice, coaching me through sobriety.
“Get the fuck off me.” I push aside my crushing humiliation and break free from the players holding me. I rummage through my bag for my phone, only to remember it’s missing—same as the last twenty-four-hours. “Motherfucker.” I throw my bag to the side. “Let me see your phone.” I’m desperate, pride be damned. “Please, Grant.”
“How many pictures of your wild night do you want to see?” He fiddles with his phone before shoving the screen in my face.
A sharp pain slices across my chest, and the sound of my heartbeat rushes in my ears.
Everything makes sense and falls apart at the same time.
There on the screen, the front page of TMZ showcases the greatest mistake of my fucked-up existence.
“Jackson O’Reilly — Two-Timing and Double-Teaming.”
In the picture, I’m sitting on a couch in the Hard Rock penthouse, flanked by two half-naked women. One is laughing at something outside the frame, and the other has her hand on my knee.
No. No. No. No. No. I’m going to be sick.
In front of me are bottles of liquor, red plastic cups, piles of cash, lines of white powder, and baggies of pills.
Fucking awesome.
Intoxicated and high, I’m captured leaning forward, oblivious to my surroundings and about to take another line.
My eyes lift to catch Ethan’s stony gaze. There’s no gloating, only devastation.
You’re fucking done.
It’s over. I know it. He knows it.
The wave of realization hits me like a wrecking ball, crashing into my sternum, cracking my ribs, fracturing my heart, sucking the air from my lungs.
I stagger to the restroom, drop to my knees, and purge my roiling stomach until it’s empty, alternating between retching and stifling my sobs.