Page 29

Apparently, Coach was wrong for suspending me on the spot and having security escort me out like I’m a dangerous weapon.

Now I’m walking into the locker room because they called me back to talk further about these issues.

Patricia told me I’m not suspended and demanded that I forgive Coach for speaking out of terms. After all, I admitted to doing things with his daughter, and that made it personal.

Well, this walk into the locker room feels like stepping into a funeral where I’m both the corpse and the killer.

The usual pre-practice chaos dies the second I appear. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Equipment bags suddenly become fascinating. Twenty-eight guys who’ve seen me naked more times than any girlfriend avoid eye contact like I’m radioactive.

“Morning, sunshine,” Weston says, the only one brave enough to acknowledge my existence. “How’s life as a social media sensation?”

“Fucking fantastic.” I drop my gear bag harder than necessary. “Really living the dream.”

The silence stretches like ice before a crack. I can feel them watching, waiting, probably taking bets on whether I’ll explode or implode first. Stevens sits three stalls down, sporting a black eye that matches my mood. He hasn’t looked at me since I walked in.

“So,” Lawrence pipes up from across the room, apparently unaware that silence is golden when your teammate’s life is burning down. “Heard you screwed the boss’s daughter and torched the season.”

Every muscle in my body goes rigid.

“What did you say?”

“Just wondering if it was worth it.” He grins like he’s making casual conversation instead of signing his own death warrant. “I mean, she’s hot, but damn, man. You really nuked everything for some therapist pussy.”

I move without thinking. One second I’m standing by my locker, the next my fist connects with Lawrence’s jaw and we’re both going down, taking half the equipment with us.

He fights back—kid’s got more balls than brains—and we’re rolling across the floor, throwing punches like it’s playoffs instead of practice. Blood spatters the concrete. Mine or his, doesn’t matter. The violence feels good, clean, like finally having an outlet for all the rage I’ve been swallowing.

“brEAK IT UP!”

Hands pull us apart. Weston and Thompson hauling me back while Rodriguez restrains Dez. The rookie’s nose is streaming blood, and my knuckles are split again. Same wounds, different day.

“What the fuck, Hendrix?” Weston shoves me against my locker. “Are you insane?”

“He had it coming.”

“For what? Saying what everyone’s thinking?”

“For talking about her like she’s—” I stop myself before saying what Chelsea is to me. Because these assholes don’t deserve to know. Don’t deserve to hear her name in their mouths.

“Like she’s what?” Lawrence spits blood onto the floor. “Your girlfriend? News flash, asshole—she’s not. She’s the coach’s daughter who you fucked and got caught. End of story.”

I lunge for him again, but Weston blocks me, hands flat against my chest.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. “Don’t prove them right about you being out of control.”

“I am out of control,” I snarl. “Have been since the day she walked into that meeting room.”

“Then get in control. Because this?” He gestures at the blood, the scattered equipment, the teammates staring at me like I’m a wild animal. “This is exactly what they want. Proof that you’re the same old Reed who solves problems with his fists.”

Coach Clark appears in the doorway, takes in the carnage, and his face goes purple.

“Hendrix! My office! NOW!”

The walk down the hallway feels like a perp walk. Support staff scatter like I’m contagious. Through the glass windows, I can see reporters gathering outside, probably hoping for exactly this kind of meltdown.

Coach’s office hasn’t changed since yesterday—same trophies, same photos, same disappointment radiating from every surface. But today there’s something else. Finality.

“Sit.”

I remain standing. “If you’re cutting me, just say it.”

“Oh, you’re getting cut. Question is whether it’s from the team or just from her.”

“From Chelsea?”

“Dr. Clark,” he corrects sharply. “And yes. The board’s making noise about ethics violations, conduct detrimental to the team. Your little stunt just now doesn’t help.”

“Lawrence was out of line.”

“Lawrence was honest. Brutally, stupidly honest, but honest.” He leans back in his chair, studying me like game tape. “Here’s the reality, Hendrix. That photo isn’t going away. The media circus is just getting started. And every day you’re associated with my daughter, it gets worse for everyone.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying you have a choice. Public statement distancing yourself from her. Clean break. Professional relationship only. Do that, and maybe—maybe—we can salvage your spot on this team.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’re done. Not just here. I’ll make sure every GM in the league knows you’re a liability. That you can’t separate personal and professional. That you’re the kind of player who destroys teams from the inside.”

The threat hangs between us like a loaded gun. He’s not bluffing—Chris Clark has enough influence to blacklist me permanently. One phone call, and my career becomes a cautionary tale.

“You want me to throw her under the bus.”

“I want you to tell the truth. That whatever happened was a mistake. That she was professional throughout your treatment. That you take full responsibility for any... misunderstandings.”

“Misunderstandings.” I taste the word like poison. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

“That’s what it has to be.” His voice softens slightly. “Look, I know this is hard. But Chelsea will survive this. She’s brilliant, resilient. She’ll land on her feet somewhere else. But if you keep dragging her down with you—”

“I’m not dragging her anywhere. She makes her own choices.”

“Does she? Or is she making them because she thinks she loves you?”

The question hits harder than Lawrence’s fists. Because he’s right. Chelsea’s not thinking clearly. She’s sacrificing everything for something that might not even be real.

“I need time to think.”

“You have until tomorrow’s press conference. Five PM. Either you’re there, making the statement, or you’re cleaning out your locker for good.”

I stand to leave, but his voice stops me at the door.

“For what it’s worth, Hendrix, I don’t think you’re a bad guy. Just a guy making bad choices for someone who deserves better.”

Outside his office, the facility feels hostile. Every face I pass reminds me that I’m the problem. The liability. The walking scandal who turned their workplace into a soap opera.

In the parking garage, I sit in my car and stare at my phone. Chelsea’s contact finally saved correctly. No messages since yesterday when I forwarded the blackmail texts to Patricia. Radio silence from the woman who’s destroying her life for me.

Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe Coach is right—she deserves better than this chaos I bring everywhere I go.

But even as I think it, my fingers are typing:

Me: They want me to cut you off publicly. Tell the world you meant nothing.

The message sends before I can second-guess it. Then another.

Me: I’m not doing it.

Me: Whatever happens, I’m not throwing you away to save my career.

The responses don’t come. Not in five minutes, not in twenty. I stare at the screen until my eyes blur, waiting for anything—anger, gratitude, even acknowledgment that she got the messages.

Nothing.

Maybe she’s already moved on. Already accepted that this thing between us was temporary insanity disguised as love. Maybe she’s in Jake’s arms right now, being comforted by someone safe and appropriate and everything I’m not.

The thought makes me want to punch something again, but Weston’s words echo in my head: Get in control.

I drive home through Chicago streets that feel foreign now. Every billboard, every radio mention of the Outlaws reminds me that I’m about to lose the only life I’ve ever known. Hockey’s been my identity since I was four years old. Without it, what am I?

Just another ex-athlete with anger issues and a gambling addict for a brother.

At my apartment, I pour whiskey I don’t drink and stare at my phone until the screen goes dark. Still nothing from Chelsea. But there are seventeen missed calls from Jerry, my agent, probably working overtime to salvage something from this disaster.

I don’t call him back. Don’t want to hear about damage control and public image and all the ways I’ve fucked up my future. Instead, I sit in the dark and think about tomorrow’s press conference.

About standing in front of cameras and lying about the realest thing in my life. About calling Chelsea a mistake to save a career that’s already over.

About the choice between destroying her reputation or destroying myself.

My phone buzzes. For a split second, hope flares in my chest.

But it’s not Chelsea. It’s the unknown number.

Unknown: 24 hours, Hendrix. Hope she was worth it.

I forward it to Patricia without reading it twice. Whatever photos they have, whatever demands they’re making, it doesn’t matter anymore. The damage is done. Chelsea’s career is finished. My career’s hanging by a thread that’s about to snap.

All that’s left is choosing how we go down.

Together or apart.

The silence from her phone suggests she’s already made her choice.

But tomorrow at five PM, I’ll make mine.

And Chris Clark isn’t going to like it.