Page 7 of Play the Last Track
“I can explain.”
“Go on then. Explainthis mess.”
I take a deep breath. “They were drinking pretty heavily at the bar. I left, and just happened to be following them out. They were making comments about Ka—the staff.”
“So you punched him?”
“I fucked up. I know.”
“You more than fucked up, Flynn. The team called. They want answers.” She sighs. “Okay, first things first. Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”
I look down at my red, aching knuckles. “No.”
“Good. That’s good.” There’s some rustling on the other end of the phone, like Hollie is pulling notes in front of her or something. “A sports gossip blog is circulating the pictures on their socials, and TMZ has now picked up on them. There’s a video on Instagram, too, but I am working on getting it taken down. You certainly know how to make waves, Flynn.”
“What did the team say?” I hit the speaker button on my phone and put it on the counter. If I don’t start doing something with my hands, I’m going to start spiraling.
“They’re pissed. Obviously. They didn’t outright say it, but they mentioned that your contract is up at the end of the season, and we should really, really be considering other options if you’re set on going down a destructive path. The bottom line is, we need to clean up your act and keep your nose clean until the ink dries on your extension.”
“Yeah,” I breathe out, pulling a box of dried pasta from the cupboard and two chicken breasts from the fridge.
“You do want to keep playing with the Broncos, don’t you?” she asks quietly.
I pause, the pot I just pulled from the drawer hanging by my side. That shouldn’t even be a question. I shouldn’t even be considering another path. Obviously, I don’t want to resign. Right?
I want a ring. I am chasing a ring. The Broncos are my best chance. Right?
I shake my head, trying to clear away the thoughts as much as possible. “Yeah. Of course.”
“Well then, we need a game plan,” Hollie says. “A good one.”
“I could publicly apologize?”
“No. We have already paid the guy’s emergency bill, and he’s happy with season tickets to stay quiet on the matter. We need something more obvious. Something the press can sink their teeth into, in a good way. Something that helps paint you in a better light, a softer and more relatable light.”
“Whatever you say goes. Just let me know where you need me to be and when.”
“Mmm,” she hums through the phone, and the sound makes my stomach churn. She’s already got a plan. That’s herI already have a planhum.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing … nothing, I just …”
“Spit it out, Hol.”
I hear the smile in her voice when the next words come down the phone. “We need something more … long term …”
“You obviously have something in mind, so spit it out, would you?” I fill the pot with water and place it on the stove to boil, then I pull out a pan to cook the chicken and place it on the stove.
“You need a girlfriend.” The knife I pull from the drawer slips from my hand and clatters onto the countertop. “A proper, stable, game-attending girlfriend.”
“That’s insane. No.”
“You said whatever I say goes.”
“Yeah, well, I take it back. You’ve officially lost it.” I regain my composure and start slicing the chicken breast, still shaking my head in disbelief.
“This could work. You get a girlfriend. You’re photographed a few times with her: going for dinner, to the movie theatre, on the field after a game. It’s perfect. You keep your nose clean, you show them you can be steady and dependable for someone, you drum up some good press in the meantime, and after you sign, we can release a statement that you two broke up.”
