I slouched lower, rubbing the back of my neck. “When do I start?”
“Monday morning.” Cam stood, tucking the clipboard under his arm. He paused at the door. “And Beckett?”
“Yeah?”
“If you screw this up, Lawson’s making it three games.”
I gave a short, humorless laugh. “Guess I’ll see you Monday.”
When he left, the silence settled heavy around me. I looked down at the folder again, her name gleaming across the top in neat black type. Ellery James Youth Foundation.
Kyle’s girl. The media darling. The one person in this whole town who could probably make sainthood look like an item on her to-do list.
And now, apparently, my new boss.
I dragged a hand down my face, exhaling hard. This had to be some kind of divine punishment.
“Community outreach,” I muttered, flipping the folder shut. “Yeah. Perfect.”
Because of course the league thought pairing their most volatile player with Kyle’s golden-hearted girlfriend was a good idea.
Maybe this wasn’t redemption. Maybe it was karma with a sense of humor.
The Michigan sunset bled molten orange across the lake, painting the water in streaks of fire as I drove through Stevensville’s quiet streets. The kind of view people pulled over to photograph. I barely noticed it.
My phone buzzed again on the passenger seat—another reporter, probably. Or my agent, wondering if I’d like to issue another “statement.” I ignored it. Then it buzzed again. And again. A text preview flashed across the screen: a meme. Someone had freeze-framed the exact moment I’d lost it last night—the veins in my neck standing out, eyes wild, teeth bared mid-shout. The caption read Chaos Strikes Again.
I grabbed the phone and tossed it onto the seat.
The screen lit once more before going dark, like it wanted to remind me it was still there, still whispering the same accusation the whole damn city was thinking.
You did it again.
I turned the music up, something loud and angry, bass thrumming hard enough to shake the mirrors. The guitars drowned out the noise in my head, but not for long.
Every time I blinked, I could still see that red card flashing in the ref’s hand.
At a stoplight, I caught my reflection in the windshield—tired eyes, rough stubble, tension coiled tight in my jaw like it was carved there. My hands clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles still raw.
“Babysitting kids and cocktail fundraisers,” I muttered. “Yeah, that’ll fix everything.”
The light changed, and I pressed the gas, coasting past rows of lakeside houses. Families out on porches. Couples walking dogs. People whose worlds didn’t implode over a bad call or a temper that never learned to quit.
But the image that wouldn’t leave my head wasn’t the game or the fallout—it was her photo.
Ellery James.
Sharp eyes. Confident smile. That polished, effortless kind of goodness people like me didn’t belong anywhere near.
I could still hear Cam’s voice echoing in the back of my mind: She runs a foundation that helps kids play the sport you just embarrassed.
“She looks like trouble,” I said to no one, a half-smirk tugging at my mouth. The kind of trouble that probably smiled while telling you to sit still and behave.
The kind that made me want to do the opposite.
My apartment greeted me in silence. Minimalist, modern, and empty—just like it always was. A place to sleep between flights, not to live in.
I kicked off my boots and dropped my gear bag on the floor, the dull thud echoing in the stillness. The TV flickered to life automatically, tuned to the sports network because that’s what it always was.
