"I said go away," I spit.
"Coach told me you've been cleared to play. Your benching is over." He adjusts his Rolex, a casual gesture that screams power. "I pulled some strings with Senator Ashford and called in a favor. You're starting in Friday's game."
"I don't want your favors."
"Too bad, you already have them." He steps closer, the scent of his cologne suffocating me. "But like everything in life, Declan, there's a price."
My brows furrow. "What price?"
"Next week, there's a charity gala with big donors and media coverage." His smile is all teeth, no warmth. "You'll attend with Evangeline. At the end of the evening, you'll announce your engagement."
The words take a moment to process. "My what?"
"Your engagement to Evangeline. It's already been arranged with Senator Ashford." He says it like he's discussing a business transaction, which I suppose to him it is. "The senator gets positive publicity for his daughter dating a reformed hockey star. You get a beautiful woman who boosts your career. Evangeline gets her father's approval. Everyone wins."
Bitter laughter erupts from my mouth. “No, Senator Ashford gets positive publicity for his daughter dating a reformed hockey star. You maintain your investment in my career. Evangeline gets her father's approval. All of you win. I don’t.”
"You'll do fine. Evangeline is beautiful, well-connected, and perfect for your image. The marriage doesn't even have to be real, just public enough to matter."
Searing anger fills my chest.
"No!"
His smile doesn't falter. "Excuse me?"
"I said no." I stand, using my height advantage. "I'm not engaging in some fake relationship for your benefit. I'm done with your manipulations, Gregory. Your schemes no longer work on me.”
His face tightens. “You’re under contract.”
One eyebrow arches. “Am I under contract or am I under destruction from you? Besides, I'm not renewing my contract. You can't make me."
"Can't I?" He reaches into his black leather, monogrammed suitcase and pulls out a folder. "I've already filed a lawsuit for breach of contract. We have a binding agreement, which you're trying to walk away from before it expires."
"Sue me then. I'll counter-sue for the eight million you stole."
"Stole?" His laugh is sharp, humorless. "That's a strong accusation especially when I have documentation showing every transaction was approved by your financial team. My compensation structure was always outlined in our contracts. Performance bonuses. Management fees. Advisory costs. They’re all legal."
I might not know how he stole them, but I’m sure Patricia Ammon is gathering evidence against him. I don’t let him have the last word.
"You stole them. Stop pretending."
Ignoring me, he opens the folder, revealing pages of legal documents.
"I've prepared affidavits from three witnesses, financial advisors I hired on your behalf, stating that you were regularly briefed on all account activities.”
The more he talks, the more obvious it is he’s guilty. Who prepares a witness defense against fraud before he’s accused unless he’s guilty and covering his tracks?
“There’s also evidence of your irrational spending,” he continues. “Being reckless with money. That’s the kind of liability no team wants."
My jaw tightens. "You're threatening to destroy my reputation."
"I'm protecting mine. There's a difference, which you’ve failed to learn in nine years." His gray eyes gleam with malicious satisfaction. "You have until Monday to decide. Announce the engagement, play nice with Senator Ashford, and I'll make all of this go away. Or fight me, and I'll bury you in legal fees while your career crumbles. Your choice."
He walks out, leaving me standing in the weight room with the bitter taste of powerlessness coating my tongue.
***
Practice that night becomes a disaster that’s been waiting to happen.
