When we get to his car, he finally speaks.
“This is bad.”
“I know.”
“Videos are everywhere. People are tagging the team, the league, and our sponsors.”
“I know.”
“Marshall’s going to call. The league’s going to call. This is going to blow up?—“
“I know!” My voice echoes in the empty garage. “I know it’s bad, Noah. I was there. I’m the one who threw the punch.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“He called us—” I stop to take a breath. “He used a slur. What was I supposed to do?”
“Walk away. Like we practiced. Like you’ve been doing.”
“For six weeks. We’ve been together six weeks and I’m supposed to just let some asshole?—“
“Yes! Because this is exactly what happens when you don’t!” He runs a hand through his hair. “This is what we were trying to avoid and now it’s everywhere and there’s no taking it back.”
We stand there in the parking garage, both of us breathing hard, the weight of what just happened crushing down around us.
“What do we do?” I finally ask.
“I don’t know. I need to think. I need to—“ His phone rings. He looks at the screen and rakes a hand through his hair. “Shit. It’s Marshall.”
“Already?”
“Someone probably sent him the video.” He stabs the screen. “Bob. Yes, I saw it. I’m with Masterson now. We’re leaving the hotel. Okay. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He hangs up. “Marshall wants to see me tonight at the arena.”
“What about me?”
“He wants you there tomorrow morning at nine.”
“Why not tonight?”
“Because he wants to talk to me first. About damage control and about what the hell we’re going to say when the media starts calling.”
“Are you going to tell him? About us?”
Noah’s quiet for a long moment, his eyebrows knitted together.
“I don’t know. Maybe I won’t have to. The videos are pretty clear.”
“Noah—”
“I have to go. Get some sleep. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t post anything. Don’t respond to texts from the media.” He gets in his car. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He drives away, and I’m left standing in the parking garage alone.
My phone buzzes with another text from Carter.
Are you okay? Where are you?
