I don’t respond.
More texts come in. From Jack. From Tate. From teammates, my parents, all of them asking what happened, if the videos are real, if I’m okay.
I turn off my phone and drive home.
The next morning, my phone has 247 notifications.
Social media is a nightmare. Sports blogs are running stories.
“Raptors Player Masterson in Altercation Outside Team Event”
“Video Shows Masterson Kissing Man Before Fight”
“Is Coach Enver’s Son Dating a Player?”
I force myself to read some of them.
Most focus on the fight. The punch. They speculate about whether I’ll be suspended.
But there’s some focus on the kiss and on Noah and the fact that he’s the coach’s son.
Comments go from supportive to vicious. Some people defend us, some call us disgusting, some wonder about whether I got special treatment during probation because we were sleeping together.
That one makes my stomach turn.
At eight-thirty, I get a text from Noah.
I’m already here. Marshall’s office. Don’t be late.
I arrive at the arena at eight forty-five. The place is quiet. It’s too early for most staff to be here, thankfully.
I head to Marshall’s office. The door’s closed.
I knock.
“Come in.”
I open the door. Marshall sits behind his desk and Noah sits in one of the chairs across from him, looking like he hasn’t slept. Coach Enver stands by the window, his jaw so tight, his teeth might be damn close to cracking.
Fuck.
“Sit down, Masterson,” Marshall says.
I sit in the chair next to Noah. We don’t look at each other.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the videos,” Marshall says.
“Yes sir.”
“Then you know how bad this looks.”
“Yes sir.”
“The league called me at midnight. They’re reviewing the incident. Considering disciplinary action.”
My stomach drops. “How much?”
“Depends on what the investigation finds. Could be anywhere from five games to twenty.”
