Dude's gonna blow his NHL shot over some girl.
That lacrosse guy just got his face rearranged.
Guess we know who won the breakup lmao.
There are hundreds of them—maybe thousands. The videos have been shared across every platform.
"Fuck." I drop the phone on the bed and press the heels of my hands against my eyes. "Fuck."
"Yeah." Ashton sits on the edge of my bed. "It gets worse."
"How could it possibly get worse?"
"Someone tagged Seattle's official account. And a bunch of sports journalists. It's making the rounds. People are talking about it, Declan. Not just students. Actual reporters."
My stomach turns. For a second, I think I might throw up, but I swallow it down. "Did Coach see it?"
"What do you think?"
I think I'm screwed. That's what I think.
"He called an emergency meeting," Ashton continues. "Monday morning. Eight a.m. You, him, and the athletic director. You didn’t answer, so he called me. He’s pissed."
"Shit."
"Yeah. Shit." He stands up and pulls at his hair. "That was stupid. You had to go and start a fight with some randomlacrosse player because you saw him standing too close to Sutton."
"He had his hands on her."
"I don't care if he was bending her over the fucking pool table. You don't get to punch people, Declan. Not when you're this close to getting everything you've worked for."
I know he's right. I know all of this.
"Get your shit together, Hayes. Because if you don't, you'll lose everything. And I'm not just talking about hockey."
He leaves my room. He’s obviously pissed. Last night is a bit of a blur, but I know he’s right.
My phone is on the nightstand. I grab it with the intention of texting Sutton and starting my apology tour. I see three missed calls from my dad. He left two voicemails.
I don't want to listen to them, but I know I have to.
I press play on the first one.
"Declan. Call me back. We need to talk."
His voice is calm. That's how I know he's furious.
The second voicemail is longer.
"I warned you. I told you this girl was going to ruin your life, and you didn't listen. You had one job—go to camp, impress the scouts, and come home ready to sign. But instead, you're getting into fights at parties like some kind of thug. Do you have any idea what you've done? Seattle is watching. Everyone is watching. And what they're seeing is someone who can't control himself. Someone who's not worth the investment. Call me back. Now."
I delete both messages without responding. I can't deal with him right now. Not on top of everything else.
Monday morning comes too fast.
I drag myself out of bed at seven. My face looks like hell. There's a bruise blooming along my cheekbone where Connor got me, and my knuckles are scraped and swollen. My brokenfinger is probably fully broken now. It's purple and swollen. Nothing I can’t play through.
Ashton drives me to campus. Neither of us says much. What is there to say?
