“They held an emergency league meeting this morning. All the owners joined in,” he explains, words tumbling over each other in excitement. “They’re agreeing to all our terms. No lockout. No lost games. We won, man!”
I can’t believe it. The players stood their ground. The league blinked first. We won.
But before the relief can even pretend to settle, my phone buzzes: Bunny Newman calling.
I hurry to the stairwell where I can be alone. No one needs to witness this.
“Hello,” I say.
“Congratulations, Liam. Looks like you got what you wanted.”
I grit my teeth hard.
“You fought the good fight,” she continues. “The players held firm; the owners backed down, and now everyone’s happy.”
I close my eyes, waiting for the knife.
“Well,” she adds with theatrical timing, “almost everyone.”
“And what does that mean?” I ask, though we both know I know exactly what it means.
She lets the silence stretch like taffy, sticky and uncomfortable.
“Unfortunately,” she finally says, voice sweet enough to cause diabetes, “I won’t be able to help Claire after all.”
The words land exactly where she aimed them, square in my chest. My grip on the phone tightens.
“Mrs. Newman—”
“Such a shame, too,” she sighs. “I really thought she had such potential. But, well…things didn’t work out, did they?”
“So that’s it?”
She laughs, soft, amused, like a cat that’s cornered a particularly stupid mouse. “Come now, Liam. You’re a smart man. You understand how these things work.”
My pulse drums in my ears.
“I wish Claire the very best,” she continues, twisting the knife, “wherever she ends up. Well, I won’t keep you, dear. Enjoy your victory.”
The line goes dead.
I stand frozen, phone still in hand, stomach churning like a washing machine full of regret. This is what winning looks like when you’ve lost everything that matters in the process.
The players won. The league caved. We’re getting everything we asked for—better contracts, more freedom, financial security. But standing here in this hallway, phone warm in my hand from a call that will ruin lives, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve won the wrong game. Like I’ve been playing Go Fish while everyone else was playing Russian Roulette, and somehow, I’m the one who ends up shot.
Tonight, I have to tell Petra everything about Claire’s lie. And my complicity. And how I chose a labor dispute over her sister’s future. The conversation plays in my head on repeat, each version worse than the last.
The facility buzzes with celebration around me. Teammates planning victory parties, agents calling with congratulations, the machinery of success grinding into motion. And here I stand, the designated team representative who represented everyone but the people who actually needed me.
Some victories, I’m learning, taste exactly like defeat. They just come with better press releases.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I ’ve been dreading this phone call ever since Bunny Newman threw down the gauntlet.
I sit on the edge of my couch, elbows braced on knees in the universal posture of men about to deliver bad news. My phone feels like a brick—no, bricks have purpose. This feels like holding condensed failure.
The past twenty-four hours have been a masterclass in winning battles while losing wars. CBA victory? Check. Crushing conversation with a woman who could buy and sell my entire existence? Check. The gut-wrenching realization that I’ve failed someone who trusted me? Check, check, and check.
