Triple Power Play (Obsessed Players Club #1)

41. Jackson

I yank open the heavy door. A drawn-out creak of the hinges pierces my throbbing head, and I wince. The locker room comes to a standstill. Judgment. Disgust. Darting eyes.

Fuck them. I’m not in the mood.

I take a seat on the bench in front of my designated cubby, and the weight of their collective scorn presses down on me.

Next to me, Grant refuses to meet my gaze. His rejection only adds to the loathing eating away at me. I get it. I fucked up.

I skirted curfew and missed the team bus. I’m late and hungover, and my entire body hurts.

Someone could’ve woken me, or maybe they tried. I wouldn’t know. I was dead to the world and lost my phone.

A broken film reel of fragmented memories of last night flit through my mind. I remember a stream of texts and a drunken attempt at calling Aurora. An unending flow of alcohol started with a sip, became wildfire and vengeance in my veins, and hit me harder than I ever expected.

I’m a fucking idiot. No, I’m more than an idiot. I’m an absolute fuck-up.

After several long minutes of icy silence, besides the occasional sounds of tape being applied and the rustling of uniforms, I can’t take it anymore.

“Did someone fucking die?” I snap, my voice raspy, bitterness lacing my tone. I sweep my glare across each player, waiting for one of them to muster the courage to confront me.

Anything but this silence.

I’d rather the entire locker room beat the shit out of me than drown in my thoughts.

“Other than your relationship?” Grant mutters, not even allowing me the dignity of a glance.

My heart twinges, and my stomach plummets, but I cage the pain and wrestle with it.

I did nothing wrong. My relationship isn’t over. It can’t be. I won’t let it be.

Denial. Denial. Denial. The word breaks through my lies, and I push it down.

“O’Reilly, you’re out. Hoosier, you’re in for O’Reilly.” Ethan’s tone is cold and detached.

Here we go again.

My knee bounces with agitation, my eyes locking on him .

She has every reason to be with him, and I bet he couldn’t wait to tell her how much of a fuck-up I am.

Ethan and Aurora. Endgame.

I rub the inner side of my ring finger with my thumb, the sting of the new tattoo anchoring me.

It’s not over. She’s mad, but we’ll work through it. He can’t have her. He can’t .

A violent cocktail of resentment, withdrawal, and self-loathing jolts through me, and I’m on my feet, fists clenched. “You’re benching me? Why?”

His sharp gaze meets mine, brimming with disappointment and disgust, deepening my hatred—hatred for myself.

He cocks his head and narrows his eyes. “You missed curfew and you’re late, all so you could get drunk and chase tail. I hope it was worth it.”

“Fuck off. I don’t chase tail.”

“I stand corrected. Missed curfew and arrived late after getting wasted and spending your night fucking puck bunnies. Is that better?” he shoots back, sarcasm heavy in his tone.

My blood boils, shadows linger at the edge of my vision, and I’m on him before anyone can stop me.

“Is that what you fucking told her?” I grit through clenched teeth and shove him.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t fight back. He sneers and shakes his head with disdain.

I lean in. “I’m gonna wipe that fucking smirk off your face.”

Nothing.

I rear my fist back, and pandemonium erupts. I’m restrained and struggle against an arm around my throat, pressing into my windpipe, and hands clutching my arms and shirt.

Grant gets in my face, his expression mirroring the same hatred I see in everyone else.

I scoff. “You’d seriously defend him over me? What a fucking joke.”

Ethan stands behind Grant, chest heaving and fists balled. I bet he wouldn’t hesitate to take a shot if given the opportunity. I wouldn’t mind the unconsciousness, a respite from this shitstorm.

I raise my chin. “Hit me. Fucking do it.”

He ignores my taunts. Instead, his words strike me with the force of a sledgehammer. “No one had to tell Aurora anything, you fucking idiot. It’s all over the internet. You’re fucking done.”

Ice flows through my veins, rage shifting to panic. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

A dark storm rages in my mind, and my body trembles with fear.

What the fuck did I do? I blacked out.

“Why don’t you sit down, shut up, and figure it out while the rest of us prepare for the game?” Ethan switches to coach mode, walks away, and ends the confrontation.

Gone is the man who kneeled beside me yesterday, patient and concerned. The man who spent nights with me on the ice, coaching me through sobriety.

“Get the fuck off me.” I push aside my crushing humiliation and break free from the players holding me. I rummage through my bag for my phone, only to remember it’s missing—same as the last twenty-four-hours. “Motherfucker.” I throw my bag to the side. “Let me see your phone.” I’m desperate, pride be damned. “Please, Grant.”

“How many pictures of your wild night do you want to see?” He fiddles with his phone before shoving the screen in my face.

A sharp pain slices across my chest, and the sound of my heartbeat rushes in my ears.

Everything makes sense and falls apart at the same time.

There on the screen, the front page of TMZ showcases the greatest mistake of my fucked-up existence.

“ Jackson O’Reilly — Two-Timing and Double-Teaming .”

In the picture, I’m sitting on a couch in the Hard Rock penthouse, flanked by two half-naked women. One is laughing at something outside the frame, and the other has her hand on my knee.

No. No. No. No. No. I’m going to be sick.

In front of me are bottles of liquor, red plastic cups, piles of cash, lines of white powder, and baggies of pills.

Fucking awesome.

Intoxicated and high, I’m captured leaning forward, oblivious to my surroundings and about to take another line.

My eyes lift to catch Ethan’s stony gaze. There’s no gloating, only devastation.

You’re fucking done.

It’s over. I know it. He knows it.

The wave of realization hits me like a wrecking ball, crashing into my sternum, cracking my ribs, fracturing my heart, sucking the air from my lungs.

I stagger to the restroom, drop to my knees, and purge my roiling stomach until it’s empty, alternating between retching and stifling my sobs.

She’ll never take me back, and fuck, I don’t deserve to have her.

I crumble against the wall, gasping for air. Hot tears burn my eyes, and the pounding in my head intensifies. My shivering body hunches forward, and I bury my head in my knees. I want to fucking die, end this torture, but my brain scrambles to make sense of it all, to absorb the gravity of my mistake.

Not a mistake. An annihilation.

How many times do I need to do this? When will I learn?

It only took one night to destroy my entire life. No, one drink.

It doesn’t matter what brought me there.

I felt the rush, the intensity, with the first sip. The euphoria was almost orgasmic. The weight of my issues fell away, and as the night went on, I was numb.

Nothing mattered but that moment, that high. I surrendered to oblivion. The boundaries of reality faded, and I found solace in the escape it provided.

I was Jackson O’Reilly, revered hockey god and the life of the party. I was invincible.

Yet, here I am, alone and on edge.

No one is rushing to my aid—not my teammates or supposed friends.

Not Ethan, who I’ve become close with.

And definitely not Aurora.

She’ll never speak to me again.