Coach Nelson adds, “The tragedy of it all is that they broadcast it during a charity game. This illicit video went viral before thousands of fans. Kids. Families. Sponsors are furious, and the charity board wants heads to roll. Yours specifically. Some are demanding refunds because the game was canceled. And it was a charity event!"
“That game was the league's holiday highlight, watched worldwide, and it ended in chaos because of your behavior,” Charlotte grumbles.
Gerald throws up a hand, objecting. “My client isn't at fault because of what those three did.”
“Let's be realistic, Gerald,” Charlotte snaps. “If he'd spent the holiday with his wife instead of at a drunken party with women, there'd be nothing for the paparazzi to catch.” The room goes silent. No one can argue with that.
“Well, that leads us to the consequences,” Larry breaks the silence, sliding a folder across the table to me. “Section 27a of your contract. The morality clause. Any behavior that damages the league's image or reputation is grounds for disciplinary action. As we stated before, last night's game was cancelled, and that qualifies as a breach.”
Coach Nelson folds his arms. “Your actions humiliated yourself, the team, the league, every fan, and your wife. While I realize that's a personal matter, we warned you.”
I huff and raise my head, looking the Coach dead in the eye. I might be a total screw up at this moment, but it's time to own my mistakes. “So where does that leave me?”
Larry opens the folder in front of me. “Suspension for six games without pay. All family-focused endorsements are being pulled as we speak. That's not a punishment from us; that's your sponsors' decision. They want no part of the Jaxson Kingston we saw on that footage.”
Gerald starts to argue, but Coach Nelson shuts him down immediately.
“It's out of our hands at this point, Gerald. No matter how good Jaxson is, it's this, or the league washes their hands of him.”
“There's more,” Larry interjects, closing his laptop. “You have to complete the league's good conduct program and attend six months of ongoing addiction recovery. They want you to get a handle on this before it destroys not only your career, but your life. If you refuse, termination of your contract is on the line.”
“And you have to issue a public apology within twenty-four hours. No excuses, just accountability. After that, there'll be interviews and appearances to demonstrate that you're fixing it. No repeats. Zero tolerance. You have to stop drinking and partying.”
“Your call, Jaxson,” Coach barks.
The room falls silent again, all eyes on me. Outside the window, the world keeps moving as if nothing earth-shattering has happened. This meeting has sucked the wind out of my sails. They're making an example of me. As hard as that is to face, I've still not been able to reach Melly, so the worst is yet to come.
“Whatever I need to do to make this right, I'll do,” I declare.
Coach taps the table twice. “Make it so, team.”
[End of Flashback]
I issued a public apology the next day, with the PR team helping me write and polish it. I was humiliated, but it was no less than I deserved.
I order an Uber from the airport, and the ride home feels endless. The closer we get, the less snow there is on the ground. The driver, a Titans fan, recognizes me. He doesn't mention the train wreck that is my life, but he fills the silence with talk about the hockey season, the weather, and the canceled flights. It's nothing but white noise that barely registers. All I can think about is Melly.
Before long, he stops in the circular drive at my front door. It's been so long since I've been here, I feel like an interloper. I tip the driver and step out of the car. Without looking back, I approach the keypad and punch in my access code. Sighing in relief as it disengages and the door snicks open.
At least she hasn't changed the locks.
Inside, I drop my bag as the silence hits me like a gut punch. The house feels… wrong… empty.
“Melly?” My voice echoes ominously down the passageway.
I move faster, calling her name again. “Melly!”
Walking through the great room, I notice that her favorite blanket is no longer in its usual spot on the couch. There we would snuggle up and watch TV under it. The kitchen is spotless, like the rest of the house. Her grandmother's antique cookie jar and cake plate have disappeared from the kitchen island.
“Melly!” My voice rises when she doesn't answer. I tell myself she's probably just in the shower and can't hear me.
Swallowing hard, I head down the hallway. Each step lands loudly on the hardwood as I pass the gallery of framed photos lining the walls. Sunny beach trips. Ice-skating with Melly, bundled up against the cold. Our wedding day, her grin wide while I buried my face in her hair. I trace her features on the photo, lovingly, achingly. Her smile in each one feels like a memory slipping through my fingers.
I open the bedroom door and slowly walk in like I'm headed to the gallows. “Melly,” I whisper. “Please be here.”
The bed is perfectly made, as if no one has slept in it for weeks. A thin film of dust coats the dresser. My clothes inside it are undisturbed, but hers have been cleared out. With shaking hands, I reach her closet doors. Only her wedding dress remains, along with a few lonely hangers.
My breath hitches as I pull the dress into my arms as if it were her. I press my face into it, fingers brushing the veil in a gentle caress. Our wedding photo flashes in my mind, of her smiling at the camera while I held her, unwilling to let go.
