Page 90 of Chips & Checks
Chad tries to wave it off. “We joke like that. I didn’t mean it—”
Coach slams a hand down hard enough to rattle the table. “You don’t say that shit to a woman who’s clearly scared out of her damn mind. You don’t touch someone who doesn’t want to be touched. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Dante, who hasn’t moved once since the audio started, straightens with a deadly calm. “You expect me to believeMurphy’s girl, Sawyer’s daughter, is interested in you, Hawthorne? That she asked you to trap her in the vestibule and speak such filth to her that she dropped her ice bucket and her snacks?”
“Well—” Chad’s smirk twitches, collapsing under the weight of the room’s disgust.
“Be glad I’m not going old-school Vegas on your ass,” Dante growls. “Sergio, clean this up. Renee, nice work. Chad, I want you out of this facility before the sun goes down. You’re released. And the league will be hearing about this. I mean it.”
Dante storms out like the final word is his to give—which it isn’t—but Chad doesn’t budge.
Instead, he scoffs, eyes darting like a cornered animal. “You’re gonna believe her over me? Off one video? She’s not some saint. You think I’m the only one who’s thought about what those tits would feel like in their hands? You think golden boy over there hasn’t talked about screwing his trainer day and night?”
I lurch forward, but my agent clamps a hand on my arm with a low, sharp “Bowen.” I sit back down, chest heaving. If I get up again, I don’t trust myself not to put him through a fucking wall.
Sergio’s face is stone. “You’re done, Hawthorne.”
Chad snorts. “You don’t have a case.”
Renee calmly opens her folder and slides a printed copy of the morality clause across the table. “Actually, we do.” She meets Sergio’s gaze. “In addition to Ms. Sawyer’s documentation and the video we just showed, we’ve also received three written complaints regarding your inappropriate behavior. Two from staff, one from an anonymous player. They go back months. There is also witness corroboration.”
Chad pales.
She continues, smooth and surgical. “I’ve documented everything in the packet. Time stamps. Internal interviews. Thevideo, of course. And to be clear—this isn’t a legal ruling. That’s not my lane. But this team? This franchise? We don’t protect predators.”
“You’re just PR,” Chad says, but it comes out weaker than he intends.
Renee smiles without showing her teeth. “Exactly. And you just became a PR nightmare. But Annette is also here representing HR, and legal has been in the loop as well. Every step of the way.”
Chad lunges to his feet, knocking his chair back. “This is bullshit. She wanted it! That bitch has been leading me on for months—”
“Get him out.” Sergio’s voice cuts through the room like a whip.
“I’ll sue,” Chad spits as they drag him toward the door. “You’ll see. This isn’t over—”
Renee raises one hand. “It is.”
Only then do I realize how tight my grip is on the arm of my chair. My knuckles are white. My jaw aches from grinding my teeth. And I’m still staring at the screen even though it’s gone black. Violet’s not even in the room—thank fuck—but the sound of that asshole whispering filth in her ear is seared into my brain like a cattle brand.
I glance around. Everyone present looks stricken.
Sergio’s voice cuts through the tension. “Let the record show that this organization does not tolerate harassment. Not on the ice. Not in the locker room. Not in the fucking hallway of a hotel.”
“I was drunk,” Chad says quickly, voice rising with desperation. “That video doesn’t show the full story. I didn’t touch her like that. She led me on. It was flirting—”
Renee, still standing by the screen with her arms folded, says calmly, “There’s a camera trained on that alcove. Two, actually. That’s just one angle.”
Chad blinks, sways slightly, like the weight of it is finally hitting him.
“You’re done, Hawthorne,” Sergio says coldly. “Contract voided under the morality clause, effective immediately. A league report will be filed today, and we’ll cooperate fully with any disciplinary or criminal investigation. Security is waiting outside.”
Chad’s mask of bravado slips into something wild and frantic. “You’re gonna tank your whole season over a fucking slut and a rumor? How many guys on this team has she spread for, huh? Don’t pretend she’s some innocent—”
The air in the room goes still.
Coach Metcalfe stands so abruptly that his chair groans across the floor. “Watch your mouth.”
Renee doesn’t even flinch. She places her hands on the table, her voice arctic. “That woman has worked for this organization since she was twenty-five. She’s been around this team since she was a child. Every player, every staff member—hell, every fan—knows her character. If you think you can spin this by slut-shaming her, you’ve clearly underestimated how badly you’ve already fucked yourself.”
