I dropped my head into my hands and groaned. “Unbelievable,” I muttered. “I shove a ref once, and suddenly I’m the league’s charity mascot.”
Adam snorted from a few lockers down. “Pretty sure it was more than a shove.”
“Pretty sure you should mind your own business.”
He laughed under his breath but didn’t push.
The locker room smell suddenly felt too thick, the air too heavy. I grabbed my gear and stood, shoving my phone into my pocket.
I didn’t need a lecture from Cam or Lawson to know what today would be—a reminder that I was lucky to still be wearing the jersey. That I was the team’s problem child they couldn’t quite get rid of yet.
But all I could think about as I headed for the parking lot was Ellery James—her steady voice, her clipped tone, the way she’d looked at me like she actually expected better.
Maybe that was what pissed me off most.
Because for the first time in a long time, someone had looked at me like I could be more than the storm everyone warned about.
And I had no idea what to do with that.
Cam Hunter’s office looked like it had been designed by someone allergic to clutter and joy. The walls gleamed with awards and framed jerseys, all perfectly aligned, each one a reminder of the kind of player I used to be before every conversation about me included the word problem. A few photos of smiling teammates with kids at hospitals or charity events stared down at me from their spots on the wall, all polished and wholesome.
I slouched in the chair opposite his desk, arms folded, eyes fixed on the floor. The last thing I needed was a lecture, but I could already tell from the way Cam’s jaw was set that one was coming.
“You were supposed to represent the team,” he said finally, voice calm but edged. “Not pick a fight with a nonprofit director.”
I didn’t bother sitting up. “She started it.”
Cam gave a low, disbelieving laugh and leaned back in his chair. “She started it by expecting you to work?”
“No.” I met his gaze, jaw tight. “By acting like I’m her intern.”
He didn’t reply—just exhaled slowly through his nose, then turned his tablet around and slid it across the desk toward me.
The headline glared up at me in bold red type:
Beckett Mason Throws Tantrum at Youth Foundation.
Complete with a blurry photo of me leaving the gym, shoulders tense, expression pissed.
I froze. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Wish I was,” Cam said, voice even. “You’re lucky Ellery didn’t give a statement. Reporter reached out to her directly.”
I glanced up, bracing for the worst. “And?”
Cam’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “She told them, ‘He’s just passionate.’”
That threw me. I blinked. “She said that?”
“She did,” Cam said. “Could’ve torched you publicly and instead handed you a lifeline. I’d take the win if I were you.”
I leaned back in the chair, staring at the photo. Ellery James—the last person I expected to defend me—had gone out of her way to soften the blow. It didn’t fit the version of her I’d painted in my head. She’d looked ready to strangle me yesterday.
Why the hell would she protect me?
Cam’s voice broke into my thoughts. “You’re going back today.”
I laughed under my breath, low and bitter. “Of course I am.”
