Between bites, I keep checking my phone. There’s still nothing from Rafe. Every second of silence feels like a punishment.
When it’s time for the PR meeting, Marco walks with me down the hall like a guard dog. My stomach twists at every person we pass, convinced they can see the secret stamped on my face.
At the elevator, my phone buzzes again. It’s a message from Coach.
Coach: Meeting tomorrow. 9 a.m. sharp. My office. Be there early.
The weight of the text settles deep. Consequences. They’re already lining up like dominos.
We reach the meeting room on the second floor. A small conference space with a long table, a pitcher of water, notepads lined up like props. Two people are already inside—team PR.
One is a woman in her thirties, hair perfectly styled, tablet in hand. The other is a man a little older, crisp suit, the kind of face that looks neutral even when he’s furious.
They both look up when I enter. Their eyes flick immediately to my face, to the bruise.
The woman’s expression doesn’t change, but her tone is brisk. “Oliver. Thanks for coming. Have a seat.”
I sit. Marco stays near the door like he’s waiting for someone to tell him to leave. The man glances at him.
“You know Marco, right?” I say quickly. “He’s… he’s with me.”
Marco lifts his chin. “I’m not leaving him alone right now.”
The woman hesitates, then nods. “Fine. We’re not here to shame anyone. We’re here to handle this.”
The man slides a phone to the center of the table. “Eric’s joining by voice.” He taps the screen.
Eric’s voice comes through a second later. “I’m here.”
I exhale slowly.
The woman—Samantha—pulls up a clip on her tablet. “We’ve reviewed what’s circulating,” she says, and I freeze. I didn’t think there was any footage. “It’s messy but not catastrophic yet. The video angle is poor. It shows movement and confrontation, but it doesn’t show contact or capture audio.”
The man—Tom—adds, “It doesn’t even show which teammate you were confronting, which is good. Because we don’t want the narrative to include whatever was said or who it was with.”
My chest aches with the memory of it.
Eric’s voice is calm. “Ollie’s going to take full responsibility.”
Samantha nods. “Yes. That’s the key. We don’t deflect. We don’t name Kirk. We don’t discuss provocation. We don’t bring up any history.”
Tom slides a printed sheet toward me. “Statement draft.”
I look down. It’s polished and sterile:
I take full responsibility for my actions last night. I let my emotions get the best of me, and I regret it. This is not who I want to be as a teammate or a professional. I’ve spoken with the organization, and I’m committed to moving forward with accountability.
My lungs feel too small.
Samantha watches my face. “You can deliver that.”
I nod, because I can deliver anything if the stakes are high enough.
Tom leans forward. “Kirk has agreed not to speak publicly about it.”
Eric’s voice cuts in. “And consequences?”
Samantha answers, “The team will handle internally. The League will likely issue a fine. A one-game benching is probable.”
