“Well, it seems like his choices cost you two goals,” she says.
“Is there a question in there, Harper?” I ask.
“You said it yourself. It was odd. Why do you think he did that?”
I lift a shoulder. “I’ll tell you what he told us: We’re professional players. Every one of us is expected to perform when we’re called. Line changes are part of the game.”
Harper stares at me a moment, like she’s itching to pry deeper, to call bullshit outright. But then someone yells a question about Dominic’s first goal, and I shift my attention.
Then our PR team swoops in, announcing that the press is done for the night.
I head out, getting a high five from one of the media staff.
Sixteen texts. All from the guys: group invites to the bar —shots, music, the works.
I roll my eyes.
We tied.
I don’t celebrate ties.
Instead, I wander the quieting arena, my path veering up to the club level, toward the owner’s suite, now likely empty. I don’t know what I expect to find. Closure? Clarity? A confrontation?
What Idofind stops me in my tracks.
Two voices, echoing from the shadows of a nearby corporate suite.
I freeze just outside the door.
Coach Harris. No doubt.
“…hate this so much,” he’s saying. “I feel sick about it.”
“Grow a pair, will you, Harris?” says the other voice. “This is just business. It’s a handful of games a year. It’s not killing anyone, and it’s lining your fuckin’ pockets, so why complain?”
Coach exhales, exasperated. “These lineup changes are bizarre. People are noticing. It’s sloppy.”
“Then clean it up,” the guy says. “And make itwork, Harris. A tie is not what I asked for. A tie doesn’t make people any money. You’ve got to get these guys in line.”
“By what? Telling them they need to lie down and let some shitty team walk all over them? They’re strong-willed. They’recompetitors. They’ll always fight for a win. “I’m done,” Harris growled. “Pay the refs, rig the calls, I don’t care. But leave me the hell out of it.”
There’s a low, slimy laugh from the other man. “Oh, Harris,” he says, mockingly gentle. “You’re in this. There’s no out. Your job is to do what I say, becauseIreport directly to the man who owns this fucking team.”
A beat.
“My father.”
Ah. So this is Vincenzo Campisi.
“My old man signs your checks. We own the Reapers. Which means we ownyou. And if you don’t get your shit in line for me… well—” he pauses, voice darkening, “—maybe I’ll stop by and visit that pretty wife of yours. Maybe take your cute little daughters out for ice cream.”
The apparent threat in his words is nothing to take lightly. I shudder at the implications. What are his intentions with the children, I wonder? Just how unhinged is this guy?
I’m not a good man. Never claimed to be. I like the feeling of my fist meeting someone’s jaw. Like the crack of ribs under pressure, the splash of blood, the rush of adrenaline when it all explodes.
But I don’t hurt kids. Ever.
And that’s where my line is, and no amount of money, vengeance, or twisted legacy bullshit will make me cross it.
