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Marcus groans. “Fuck’s sake, I swear you’re a shit fucking friend, Reese. A kid. You’ve got a kid? At least, that’s what the news is saying, and a whole lotta other shit about you screwing your secret nanny?—”
I hang up before Marcus can finish. Suddenly, I’m sober, and I’m turning on the TV to see just what Marcus is talking about. I’ve been through the wringer enough to know what channel to go to.
Sure enough, TMZ never fails.
And sure enough, there’s my face.
Right next to Olivia’s.
How the fuck did these vultures find out?
I whip my phone back out, furiously scrolling through social media. Seems a “source close to the hockey star” is the culprit. Close how? The only person who knew was Olivia. She wouldn’t do this. She fucking loved Violet.
She could have loved me.
My mind goes to Paula next, but before I can act on the thought, there’s a knock at my door.
“Now what?” I tear my front door open, fully expecting a horde of paparazzi.
“The fuck do you want—” I snap, way too late in realizing that it’s actually Coach Driscoll at the door. He’s got bags under his eyes.
He knows.
“Reese,” he says wearily. “Can I come in?”
I don’t answer; I just step aside. He strolls in, taking a look around. His eyes fall on the kitchen, where Violet sits in her highchair, playing in her bananas and strawberries.
“I see. So the rumors are true.”
“Listen—”
Coach holds up his hand. “Don’t explain yourself,” he says. “Shit’s hit the fan so hard it’s all over the walls, Reese. I don’t think you understand the situation you’ve put me in.”
I scoff. “The situation you’re in? I’m the one with my personal life plastered all over the place!”
“And who’s fault is that?” He doesn’t raise his voice, but he might as well have. It’s cold and merciless. In her high chair, Violet starts to whimper.
Coach sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks suddenly decades older than he actually is, and I almost feel bad.
“Reese, we could have handled the kid. But the lying? The nanny?”
“There’s no proof that anything happened with Oli—with the nanny.”
“Yeah, well, there seems to be a hell of a lot of proof that she makes a habit out of it. Rumors spreading that she’s not even a nanny, but a hooker?—”
Now, it’s my turn to sound cold and merciless. “With all due respect, Coach—watch your fucking mouth.”
He sighs again and jams his hands into his pockets. “I’m just telling you what’s been said. And it don’t look good, Reese. Especially right before playoffs. I hate to do it, but you’ve left me no choice: I have to bench you for the last game of the season.”
My nostrils flare. “You can’t.”
“I can, I will, and I am. It’s already set. You’re not playing. You’re lucky I’m letting you even stay on the sidelines, big ass distraction that you’re gonna be. After the postseason, we’re going to evaluate your place on the team.”
“But this has nothing to do with what I do on the ice!”
“You don’t seem to understand the shit storm you’ve caused, Reese. Sponsors are threatening to pull out. Fan base is pissed. The board is absolutely livid. You know what all that means? I think you’re smart enough to put two and two together, son. Point is, it’s not fair to the rest of your team to be out on their asses over something that you did.” Coach straightens himself up. “You’re benched, end of story. You’re also barred from press conferences?—”
“Oh, that’s just bullshit. You’re treating me like a child.”
