Page 56 of Faking the Face Off

The door swings open and Dixon walks in, followed closely by Campbell.

“What’s up, man?” Dixon says, tossing his keys onto the counter. He’s carrying that energy he always has, like he’s five seconds away from starting some kind of chaos.

“Not much,” I reply, sitting up. “What’s going on with you guys?”

Dixon glances at Campbell, who shifts uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck.

“You should tell him,” Dixon says, his voice uncharacteristically serious.

Campbell hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “It’s about Jimmy.”

Jimmy. Again. I’m tired of hearing his name.

“What about him?” I ask, my stomach tightening.

“He pulled me aside last week,” Campbell starts, his tone bitter. “Told me I wasn’t ‘marketable enough.’ Said I needed to ‘up my image’ or I’d start seeing fewer opportunities.”

My jaw tightens. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” Campbell mutters. “It’s been messing with my head. Every time I’m on the ice, I’m second-guessing everything. It’s screwing with my game.”

Dixon nods, leaning against the counter. “And he’s not the only one. I asked a few of the guys when we were getting fitted for suits this morning. Henry said Jimmy’s been on his case, too—different excuses, same pressure. It’s affecting all of us.”

I let out a sharp breath, trying to process. “And no one thought to bring this up before?”

Campbell shrugs helplessly. “I figured it was just me. Like, maybe I wasn’t doing enough. But hearing Henry say the same thing...I don’t know. It feels bigger than that.”

“It is bigger,” Dixon cuts in, his tone fiery. “This guy’s the owner of the team, his stakes should be higher. Why would you try to make your team feel small? I don’t care if it’s his ego or some messed-up strategy, it’s unacceptable.”

“Agreed,” I say firmly. “It needs to stop, or we need a better buffer or something.”

Dixon leans forward, arms crossed. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking we need to tell Ben and let him handle it. He can make it clear this stops now. And if it doesn’t...” I hesitate, then shrug. “I don’t know, I’ve not thought that far.”

The room goes quiet as the weight of the conversation sinks in.

Before I can say anything else, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from my dad.

Coming to the game in RC. Can’t wait to see you.

The knot in my chest tightens again, shifting from anger at Jimmy to a deep frustration with the man who’s caused so much damage in my life. Without thinking, I type back:

Don’t bother.

Not five seconds later, my phone rings. I know it’s him even though it’s a number I don’t recognize. He was never around long enough for me to add him as a contact, and the stretches he was around he usually changed phones like I change underwear. When NO ID flashes across the screen, I answer, my voice cold. “What do you want?”

“What’s your problem?” he fires back, his tone defensive.

“My problem?” I snap. “My problem is you. You here to bet against me again?”

“Like it’s my fault the Renegades did horribly and suck,” he scoffs.

“I can’t do this anymore. It’s broken. It’s been broken and I’ve tried,” I shoot back, standing up and pacing the room. “You need help. Real help. Rehab, therapy—whatever it takes. But until you do, I’m done. You’re not welcome at my games, and you’re not welcome in my life.”

“Don’t do this, Ollie,” he says, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I just need a little support, that’s all. A few bucks to get me back on my feet?—”

“Are you kidding me?” I cut him off, my voice rising. “You’ve been saying that for years. How many times have I bailed you out, only for you to end up in the same place? Calling me or Mom. Bothering Mia. Enough is enough.”

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