Page 55 of Game Misconduct
Finally, he leans back, smirk faltering. “Whatever.” He rips off his jersey, and stalks to his stall.
My pulse hammers as Eli lets go of me slow, his eyes warning me without words.
The tension simmers, but it doesn’t fade.
And through it all, Sloane is there.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word during the scuffle.
But I feel her eyes, cold as glass, hot as fire, locking me down harder than any captain ever has.
Her silence is louder than Riley’s shout. Louder than the heartbeat in my ears.
She doesn’t need to cut in—because she knows I already feel it. The failure. The weight. The responsibility.
“Blame doesn’t win games either, gentlemen. Get it together before the next game.”
With that parting shot, she turns on her heel and leaves us chastised and in a silence that feels like Florida in July.
I drop onto the bench in front of my stall, letting the room clear out until I’m alone.
I sit thinking about the game, the near fight with Riley, and even though I’m the only one in the room, my stall feels too small and the air still feels too heavy.
I don’t bother to shower, knowing the media outside the door has left by now.
As I pack my gear, sweat drying sticky on my skin, my phone buzzes in my bag.
My heart rate picks up as I drag it out of my bag.
Shit, I hope it isn’t Sloane.
With my thumb, I swipe to brighten the screen.
Peter.
Shit, shit, shit.
Peter: Saw the game tonight. Rough start, but you pulled through.
Peter: Got your message about the community shit as you called it.
Peter: Play nice. Keep your nose clean. Don’t make this harder than it already is.
Pulled through. Play nice. His words scrape over my skin like salt in an open wound.
And those words may as well be a leash around my throat.
Like I didn’t just fumble through a game we could’ve lost by five.
Like none of it matters unless I smile pretty and play along.
My jaw locks, my thumb hovering before I hit delete.
The text is physically gone, but it’s burned into my brain, and carved under my skin with every other scar I’ve carried.
I shove the phone deep in the bag, zipper sharp in the silence. But it doesn’t matter how deep I bury it.
The weight of it stays on my mind.
