Gideon stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Detroit skyline a jagged silhouette behind him. He didn’t turn around. Just tossed a folded newspaper onto the desk between us. It landed with aslap.
I unfolded it.
There it was, in 48-point font, like they’d been waiting for this moment:
“COACH CALDER SHAW IN RELATIONSHIP WITH PLAYER — AND SON’S EX.”
Below it, smaller but just as damning:
“From NHL Enforcer to Creeper on Campus?”
“Crestwood in Crisis: Program Imploding Before it Begins.”
My fingers twitched. The paper crinkled under my grip.
Gideon finally turned. His face was a storm. “You’ve gotthree secondsto explain how the hell this is fixable.”
I didn’t.
He slammed his palm on the desk. “This isn’t Knox Callaghan’s ref punch, Shaw. This isworse. You’re not just screwing a player. You’re screwing yourson’s ex-girlfriendwhile coaching her. Do you have any idea how this looks?”
I knew.
I also didn’t care.
Gideon’s jaw worked. “End it. Now. Today. Walk away before this turns into alawsuit.”
My pulse thudded in my throat. I exhaled through my nose, slow. Controlled.
“No.”
One word. Flat. Final.
Gideon’s eyes narrowed. “Thehellyou say?”
I met his stare. Didn’t blink. “I said no.”
Silence.
Then Gideon laughed—a sharp, humorless bark. “You’re joking. This is ajoke.”
“Does it look like I’m joking?”
His face darkened. “You’re telling me you’d rather burn yourentire career—again—than walk away from some college girl?”
“She’s not just?—”
“She’s a liability!” He grabbed the paper, crumpled it, threw it at my chest. “You think the league gives adamnabout your midlife crisis? You thinkNategives a damn? He’s already spinning this to the press. Painting you as the predator, her as the victim. You’reruined, Shaw. And you’re taking her down with you.”
I stepped forward. Close enough to see the veins in his temples. “I’m not walking away.”
Gideon’s voice dropped to a snarl. “Why thefucknot?”
The words came before I could stop them.
“Because I love her.”
The room went still.
