My stomach drops.
Tom adds, “We aren’t announcing a suspension unless it becomes official. If the League fines you, we acknowledge it and move on. We don’t feed the story.”
I nod, jaw tight.
Samantha’s eyes sharpen. “Most importantly, Oliver, you do not answer questions about your personal life. If anyone tries to connect this to the crowd, to someone being present, to anything outside the court, you redirect. ‘I’m not discussing that.’ ‘I’m focused on my team.’ Understood?”
My throat closes. “Yes,” I manage.
Tom continues, “We keep it boring. We let it die. Fighting stories live when there’s drama. We starve it.”
Marco shifts near the door, phone in hand and every now and then sending messages. His presence is a strange comfort, like an anchor in a room full of polished lies.
Eric’s voice is firm. “Ollie, you can do this. Deliver the statement once. Then you shut up.”
I nod again.
Samantha slides a small pack across the table. “Ice. For your face. Please use it.”
Humiliation burns hot in my chest.
We run through the statement twice. They correct my tone. They adjust the pacing. They remind me not to get defensive.
I feel like a puppet. By the time the meeting ends, my jaw aches from holding myself together.
Samantha stands. “We’ll coordinate with team comms. You’ll get a media schedule update. For now, lie low.”
Tom adds, “No more surprises.”
I stand, too, legs heavy. Marco is at my side immediately, like he sensed the second I might crumble. We step into the hallway, and the door shuts behind us. For a second, I just stand there, staring blankly at the carpet pattern. My body feels hollowed out.
Marco grabs my arm. “Come with me,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t answer. He just tugs me forward.
“Marco—”
“Trust me,” he says sharply.
I let him pull me toward the elevator. My brain is too fried to resist. We ride down in silence. Marco’s grip stays firm on my arm like he’s afraid I’ll bolt. The doors open into the underground parking garage, where he drags me toward a black car with tinted windows parked in a reserved spot.
“What is this?” I ask, confused.
“A courtesy car,” Marco says, already reaching for the handle. “And we’re going.”
My stomach drops. “Going where?”
He looks at me like I’m slow. “To his parents’ place.”
The words hit like a shock wave. I stop so abruptly that Marco’s grip tightens to keep me from stumbling. “What?” I whisper. “How?”
He rolls his eyes. “I know people, okay? Just get your ass in the car.”
I have to steady myself. “But our flights?—”
“Changed,” Marco says, like it’s nothing. “We’re hopping a red-eye back to LA. You’ll still make team obligations. You’ll just be exhausted, which, honestly, seems like your default setting right now.”
