“Have a seat, Felton,” Coach tells me.
I really, really don’t want to. Trying to stifle the shiver, I pull out the chair and sit. Dropping my hands into my lap so they can’t see me fidget, I stare at them. No one is smiling.
“You played well last night,” Coach says and I nod. “Your performance on the ice isn’t why we’re calling you in.”
“Oh,” I say, only slightly pacified. “That’s good. I think.”
PR’s face is pinched. It’s not good.
“Do you know who Benny Bop is?” one of the guys in a suit asks.
I don’t have to look in a mirror to know that the color just drained from my face. All the blood leaves my head, making my vision spotty and me sway. No words come out of my mouth as I stare at him.
Oh god. Oh no.
Dread feels like a lead ball in my stomach, giving me a bad taste in my mouth.
“I told you there’s no evidence that they’re the same person,” Coach says, sighing.
“I think Felton’s expression says that they are,” the man argues.
I look at Coach desperately. I need guidance. What do I say? What do I do? Oh fuck, I may vomit right now.
“You do understand, Mr. Badcock, that this kind of conduct is violating your contract, don’t you?” the second man declares.
“No!” I insist, shoulders tensing. The room feels too hot and simultaneously far too cold. I shiver. “Please, don’t fire me. I’m a good goalie.”
“You’re an excellent goalie,” the first man agrees. “However, you have broken the terms of your contract.”
“If that’s you,” Coach offers. “Since this Benny Bop never shows his face, there’s no solid proof.”
“Yet there is,” second man says, holding up his tablet on a picture that’s mostly blurred out, fortunately, except for the tattoo that’s burned into my skin. I stare, horrified.
“Unless you’ve seen Felton undressed,” Coach says, glaring at this man.
The man is prepared, though. While giving Coach a bitter, nasty look, he swipes the screen and there I am over last summer. A picture that I fucking posted of our yacht cruise with my hockey buddies. I’m in low riding swim trunks.
Without even looking, this man places his fingers on the screen and somehow manages to zoom in right on my tattoo that’s stupidly visible in the photo.
Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
I look at Coach again, feeling like I’m wildly free-falling. What do I do? What do I say? What’s going to happen right now?
“Yes, similar tattoos,” Coach says. “Might I point out,again, that there’s nothing special about a star tattoo nor where it’s located. This Benny Bop’s face is not shown in any of his online content. There is no solid tie to Felton.”
Silence fills the room. It feels like there’s a standoff between Coach Shively and this man. I’m not sure if he believes it’s me or not, but he’s fighting like he does.
I’m going to let him down. He’ll be just another person added to the list of those disappointed in me.
“You cannot cancel his contract without solid evidence and a generic tattoo isn’t it,” Coach insists. “You can’t so much as suspend him. Fact of the matter is, you’re wasting our time without actual visual or verbal evidence that Felton is the man behind those accounts.”
The charge between them feels volatile. There’s a part of me that wants to shout that it is me, but I have a feeling that maybe Coachdoesknow that and he’s fighting it, anyway. But why? Because I’m a good goalie?
Whoever the guy is clicks his tablet off. “You and I both know it’s a matter of time now before they’re linked without argument. I’m pushing for cancellation.”
“You do that, Edward,” Coach drawls.
