Page 7 of Game Misconduct
And according to them, I’m not great at that anymore.
My agent, Peter, insisted it’s a fresh start—new city, new team. But he doesn’t get it. How could he?
His words were calm, logical, rationalizing every bruising blow to my pride. "It's best for everyone, Maddox," he'd murmured.
Best for everyone but me.
I run my thumb along my jaw, where the bruise from the fight has faded. Too bad the memory and the fall out from it all hasn’t.
Defending a rookie had cost me everything.
My phone buzzes insistently from the coffee table, Peter’s name at the top of multiple text boxes.
Grinding my jaw, I stomp over to the table and snatch up the phone, swiping the screen open.
Peter: You there?
Peter: Contract’s solid. You know that.
Peter: I know Atlanta’s not Boston, but this is your only real chance. Dallas passed. Tampa passed. Don’t throw away the opportunity, Maddox.
Peter: Unless, of course, you ARE ready to retire
Fucker. He knows exactly what buttons to push.
Frustration boils beneath my skin, a raw heat that scorches my throat. I thumb a terse reply.
Me: I’m not retiring. I’m thinking.
His reply is instantaneous, as if he’s poised, waiting, knowing what I was going to say before I even knew what I was going to say.
Peter: You mean sulking. Don’t make me cut my vacation short and fly to Boston. Sign. The. Fucking. Contract.
I snort.
Me: Since when do you go on vacation?
Peter: Since the wife forced me to. But we’re not talking about me.
Peter: Look, M. I get where you’re coming from. I’d be pissed too. But we went over this already. You gotta let Boston go. They promised to keep the details quiet and waive your fines if you promised to go away quietly.
Me: I have been quiet. I haven’t said shit.
Peter: I know. But we both know the media will catch wind of this sooner than later, and the longer you wait to give Atlanta an answer, the worse this will be. In other words, if you want to continue to play, get your shit together.
I toss the phone aside, knuckles white, my jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Peter’s right, but that doesn’t make it sting any less.
I built something in Boston. A legacy. Respect. Roots. Something I never had growing up.
Trading it all for a city where I’m just another expendable player twists sharply in my gut.
I pace like a caged lion, thoughts spiraling.
Like I’ve got a fight coming and no place to throw the first punch. Heat builds low in my spine, pressure pulsing like a war drum in my chest.
My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it, breath hot and fast, but my fingers are ice.
