I deserve to be fired.
“Hey, whatcha doing?” Brandon stumbles into the kitchen. He’s moving stiffly, almost limping. His right hand is raw and red.
I nod toward his hand. “You should’ve iced that last night.”
“I should have iced my whole body, but I had better things to do.” He leans down and kisses me lightly on the lips. “So is it? Or is it top secret? More of your spy work?”
“Nothing classified here.” I hold up my phone in one hand and the paper in the other. “Going through my phone. It blew up while I had it turned off.”
Brandon pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down. “Anything good?”
“Well, my brother is, quote,happy you beat the shit out of him, end quote.” That earns me a smile.
Brandon raises his eyebrows. “Anything else? Your face says there might be more than texts from Benj.”
My heart does a double beat with the fact that Brandon remembered my brother’s name.
“I have to fly to Atlanta for a meeting with HQ.”
“That sounds ominous.”
I nod. “Especially since it’s not only with my manager, Nathan Forget, but the president of the USSLRA, Samuel Fredericks. They told me to bring my union rep.”
“Shit.”
“I know.” I hold my mug of coffee cupped between both hands.
“What are you going to do?”
I stare at the brown liquid in my cup, hoping it has the answers like tea leaves are supposed to.
It does not.
“I don’t know. I mean, best case, I’ll never ref in the MUSSL again. My dream career is done.”
Brandon cocks his head. “Why do you say that?”
I look around his kitchen then down at myself in his bathrobe. “I’d definitely say this counts as fraternizing. It’s a fireable offense.”
“Probably only with an active player. Which I’m not. I no longer play in the MUSSL. I’m not a soccer player anymore.”
His words are like a punch to the gut. I reach out and put my hand on his. “Don’t say that. Pay your fine. Serve your suspension. Do whatever they want you to do. Don’t give up playing.”
A pained expression crosses his face. “I already did. There wasn’t much option, was there?”
“Well, you didn’t have to pound Seamus O’Marra into the ground, though I’m glad you did.”
“I did have to. No one touches you like that and gets away with it.”
I’m trying to figure out where his passion for this is coming from. Hell, I could barely get Mike to call a foul on the guy. “Why? Why did you risk it all for me?”
Before he can answer that, my phone dings with another notification. It’s James York, the union rep who will be attending the meeting. He asks me to call him.
“I’m sorry, Brandon, I have to make a call.”
He stands up slowly, the toll of the game evident on his body. “No worries, I’m gonna go have a soak in my tub. Just don’t fall off my treadmill while I’m in there.”
“I didn’t fall off the treadmill until you came back,” I grumble.
