There are too many suits. Too many careful faces.
Brent sits beside me, shoulders squared, jaw tight. Across the table, two league attorneys and the team’s PR director arrange papers like they’re setting a dinner table instead of deciding my future.
No one wastes time.
Brent steeples his fingers. “The owners don’t care what’s true. They care about predictability. They care about not waking up to new headlines every morning.”
I flip the folder open. Charts. Projections. Media sentiment graphs with clean downward arrows.
“They’re pushing for a settlement,” Brent says.
I look up. “A forced one.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“Not because they think you’re guilty,” he says carefully. “They want containment. Predictability. An outcome they can control. I think Rebecca and her team are scared and pushing for anything they can get. ”
“A settlement would keep you on the field,” Brent adds. “It limits exposure. It creates closure.”
Closure.
My jaw tightens until it aches.
“Settling makes me look guilty,” I say. “And I’m not. And I didn’t file a countersuit just to walk it back.”
The PR director doesn’t flinch. “Not settling makes you look unreasonable.”
“I’m not unreasonable,” I say evenly. “I’m consistent.”
Silence.
“I won’t settle,” I continue. “If she wants out, she can withdraw.”
The room goes quiet.
I lean back, chair creaking softly.
I think of Lila’s face when she laughs for real. The way she scans rooms without realizing she’s doing it. The lists she keeps in her head just to feel safe.
Her life is already loud. Already watched.
She doesn't need my chaos crashing into her schedule.
***
Practice should be an escape.
The rhythm. The impact. The clean math of effort in, result out.
Today, none of it sticks.
The field feels too bright. The air too thin. My body moves on muscle memory while my thoughts lag three steps behind.
I miss a route I could run in my sleep.
Jax slows beside me, eyebrows lifted. “You sleep at all?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
