"I'd like to hear this myself." Bjorn Janssen is there. Where'd he come from? Crap on a cracker. There's no way this is going to end well.
I sit up, running my fingers through my hair. It takes me a moment to get to my feet. If it weren't for the sudden jolt of adrenaline, I'm not sure I'd be able to stand at all.
"Let's go to the conference room and discuss this." It sounds like a suggestion, but when Coach uses that tone, we all know it's a directive.
My whole body is numb as I follow Kenley and Janssen into the office portion of the Buzzards' facility. Entay brings up the rear, probably to make sure I don't sprint off.
With the gelatinous mess my legs are from that killer workout, I wouldn't be able to run away if a bear was chasing me. I'd simply lie down and be bear food. That might be the more preferred option, as I feel as if I'm marching to the gallows. This is it. This is when they tell me to get out and never come back, and just like that my football career will be done.
"Can I shower first?" I'm stalling, I know, but I also smell. "I might be better prepared for a discussion not covered in sweat."
"No. Just sit down." Janssen opens the door to the conference room. This is so much worse than I anticipated. The room is full of suits. Most of them I don't recognize. One looks vaguely familiar, but I can't place him. I definitely recognize Robert Miller, owner of the Buzzards.
Bloody hell, this is going to be bad.
Coach Janssen points to a chair and I slide into it. There's a pitcher of water on the table in front of me. I pour a glass and promptly down it in one fell swoop. I refill my glass and drain that too.
It does nothing to quench the parchedness of my throat.
"Let's get this meeting started," the voice behind me says. I turn to look.Camacho is here?Shit. Absolute bloody shit.
Miller stands up. "We were just waiting on you, Vinny. Prompt as always, I see."
Camacho is so slick I'm surprised he doesn't slide off the seat when he sits down. "Xavier." He nods in my general direction.
I pour myself one more glass of water, this time if only for something to do.
"You've really stepped in it this time," Camacho continues. "I should have known you'd be a wild card with the reputation you came in with. Disgraceful. Who knows how many more people you'd leave in your wake of destruction? Do you know how hard you've been to pin down? Lucky for me, owners talk. I'm not sure what you thought you were doing here, training illegally." He opens his briefcase and pulls out a stack of papers.
Sliding them down the table, he continues, "That's a violation of your contract. Additionally, you violated your morality clause by engaging in fraudulent and illegal behavior with one Ophelia Finnegan."
I want to hiss at the mention of her name. How dare he even speak it?
"So if you'll please sign where the tabs are, you'll be officially terminated with the Baltimore Terrors."
Oh fuck. That water sits like lead in my stomach. I want to vomit it all back up. I look wildly around the table for a friend. An ally even. But all I see is stony faces.
"Do I have a choice?" I ask. I want to beg, to plead for someone to tell me there's another way.
Miller clears his throat. "I'm afraid not, Xavier. By working with Kenley here, you clearly violated your contract. You have no option but to sign the termination papers."
This is it. This is how it ends. With my hand shaking, I pick up the pen and begin to scrawl my name. Once, twice, three times, and then it's done.
Football is done.
My life is done.
I close my eyes as I place the pen down on the table. I hear the papers being pulled away. I sit back in the chair, eyes still closed, and elbows propped on the armrests. I knit my fingers together and try to focus on deep breathing. If I can't do something to still my mind, I'll absolutely lose it.
I've lost enough today. I'll keep what's left of my dignity, thank you very much. Though there's nothing wrong with a bloke crying, I won't give these suits the honor of seeing me do it.
I can hear low murmurs over the roaring inside my ears. Words swirl, but nothing clear enough for me to decipher. My brain struggles to process what they're saying. What I'm hearing.
"It's witnessed and notarized, Vinny. It's done, correct?" I think that's Miller, but I can't tell without looking.
"Done. Fair and square. Xavier Henry is no longer a Baltimore Terror. His career is finished, once and for all."
Slowly I open my eyes to see Camacho handing a stack of papers to the vaguely-familiar looking gentleman. Then I place him. Tanner Suarez. Commissioner of the USSL.
