He walked off before I could answer, leaving the room thick with silence again.
Cam glanced at me, voice quieter. “Walker had to do the same thing after the fight last month. Look at him now—he’s practically married.”
“Yeah,” I said, a smirk tugging at my mouth. “Guess true love really can be court-ordered.”
That got a few muffled laughs, but even I didn’t find it funny.
When the room finally emptied, I sat back, staring at the cracked tiles and thinking about Monday. A youth foundation. Great.
Because what every professional athlete needs after a red-card scandal is a crash course in arts-and-crafts hour.
I ran a hand through my damp hair; the towel slipping to the floor. Somewhere out there, PR was drafting headlines, Coach was pretending this would fix me, and the internet was already having a field day.
The locker room was empty now—nothing left but the echo of the loss.
Water still ran somewhere in the back, a hollow hiss bouncing off tile. The air smelled like sweat, turf, and disinfectant. My towel sat forgotten on the bench beside me. I stared at my reflection in the dull metal of my locker door, watching the rise and fall of my chest. Jaw tight. Knuckles bruised.
Every punch I hadn’t thrown on the field was sitting right here under my skin.
I didn’t need Lawson, or PR to tell me how bad it was. I knew.
Three suspensions in two seasons. Fuck, that was worse than Kieren Walker. One more, and the league stopped calling you a competitor—they started calling you a liability.
That word made my stomach turn. Liability. Like I was some walking risk assessment instead of a player who’d bled for this team.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, breathing slow, trying to shove the fury back down before it clawed out again. But it was always there. Always waiting.
The Storm had a reputation. Everyone in the league knew it—hot-tempered players, heavy tackles, a locker room that thrived on adrenaline and ego.
But me?
I was the poster boy. The one they stuck on headlines when they needed a villain.
“Too emotional to lead,” they said. “Anger management case with cleats.”
I clenched my fists and pressed them against the metal, knuckles whitening.
Control wasn’t my problem. I had control. Until someone decided to throw it right in my face. Until some ref pretended not to see the foul that everyone else in the stadium did. Until everything I’d swallowed for months finally snapped.
The cold metal of the locker door glinted under the fluorescent light, warping my reflection just enough to make me look like someone else—someone I didn’t want to recognize.
Before I could stop myself, my fist connected with the locker. Not hard. Just enough to feel it. The sting, the vibration, the sharp reminder that I was still here.
“Community outreach,” I muttered under my breath, shaking out my hand. “Perfect. Let’s see if they can fix me.”
The words echoed back, flat and bitter.
I hated how small they sounded in the silence.
Somewhere deep down, I knew what came next. PR cleanup. Smiles for the cameras. Posed photos with kids who didn’t know—or didn’t care—what I’d done. It wasn’t punishment; it was a distraction. A leash disguised as redemption.
Still, I’d do it. I’d show up, say the right things, pretend I wasn’t falling apart at the seams. Because if I didn’t, they’d find someone who would. And if the league decided I was unfixable… my career was over.
I looked at my reflection again, jaw flexing, the faint mark of the captain’s armband still imprinted on my arm.
Once, that had meant something.
Now it just felt like proof of how far I’d fallen.
