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“None of you know what the fuck you’re talking about?—”
Suddenly, my phone goes off. Thinking it might be Olivia, I check it. Nope. It’s Coach. A single text. Three words.
Come in.
Now.
Fuck.
I barrel my way through the crowd of parasites. Fuck these people and their sensibilities. If they’re not going to give me privacy, then they don’t get the courtesy of me not putting hands on them. They try to follow me, hurling questions at me a mile a minute. More shit about a mistress. More questions about my wife. I know Holly’s behind this, but I have no idea why now of all times she’d have gone to the press when she could have gone to them weeks ago.
Maybe this was her long game.
Maybe I just thought we were safe.
Slamming my way into my car, I speed off. The scent of burnt rubber and the squeal of my tires against pavement are the only things that I leave behind. Let them write about that shit in the tabloids.
I park right in front of the stadium doors and leave the car running as I haul ass to Coach’s office. I rip his door damn near off the hinges.
“Let me explain?—”
He holds his hand up. He’s behind his desk, like always, but something is different this time. A shadow in his face. A steely resignation in his eyes.
“Dalton…” He drags his gaze up to meet mine. “I told you to keep a low profile. But you have all this shit going on. What’s the meaning of this?”
“It’s bullshit, is what it is, Coach,” I stumble to explain. “All of it. I’m not married to this bitch the press is saying I am, I swear. I got my lawyer to prove it?—”
“Reese, they’re saying that you married this woman, abandoned her when you found out she was pregnant because you didn’t want it to ruin your reputation—which, I will add, is in the fucking doghouse anyway—and now, you got your mistress pregnant?”
“It’s all a lie.”
“All of it?” Disbelief drips off Coach’s words.
“It sounds like a lot, I know. But it’s not true. Except, well, Olivia is pregnant. And I plan to marry her because I’m not married to this other woman. But I don’t think that’s something you can punish me for, is it?”
Coach sighs, running a hand through his thinning hair. “No. It’s not. But all this being out here like this, on top of all the other shit that’s come before this.” He rubs the heel of one hand in his tired eyes.
He came into this angry, ready to light me up.
All I see now is regret.
“Dalton, even if I could run with the narrative that this is all a lie by some angry woman to screw you over, the damage is done. It’s been done. You’re not getting back on the ice this season?—”
“—Coach! Come on?—”
“—and you’re gonna need to prepare for being traded before next season starts.”
Just like that, my world shatters.
“Traded?” I repeat dumbly. Like maybe I didn’t hear the right word and my brain is just trying to fuck with me more than life already is.
“Yeah. Traded. You’re a good player, and there will probably be a team out there that’s willing to take a chance. But… the Bulls aren’t going to keep weathering your scandals just to hope that it pays off in the long run. There’s too much money to lose in that?—”
“Fuck money!” I shout. “I’ve been with the Bulls since day one! I’ve won us games, championships?—”
“The team has won those things, Reese. A team ain’t one guy.”
“But one guy can keep a team together.”
