Chapter 5
ELIJAH
Coach perches on the edge of the desk in his suite and kills the TV.
“I’m worried about you, son.” He rakes a look over me; eyes bruised with exhaustion. Frustration tightens his face. Rumors about his job after last season’s Conference Final have been riding him hard.
Pressure’s riding all of us. And I still tossed the Wolves game in the trash.
His stare drops to my scabbed knuckles where my fingers lace over my stomach. “What’s going on, Sylkes? I’ve always admired your attitude, but after the last game…”
A knock thuds the door. “Hey, Coach… Sylkes.”
“Connie,” Coach says, Midwestern blunt against her smooth British.
The Director of Team and Player Development—team shrink—steps in with an iPad tucked under her arm. Her quick once-over makes my gut bottom out.
“How’re you doing?” Dr. Armstrong asks, flicking a glance at Coach.
“How am I doing?” I shove my hands into my hoodie pocket and sit straighter, letting nothing leak she can pry open. “I’m fine.”
“Your knuckles?”
“Fine,” I answer too fast, then add, “Sore, but yeah… fine.”
“That’s good to hear.” Her eyes narrow as she taps and swipes the iPad like she’s filing me already.
“Eli,” Coach says, drawing me back, “when a player exhibits out-of-the-norm behavior, it raises a red flag for me. I’ve been in this game long enough to see some incredible talent, and long enough to know what happens when it’s not looked after.”
“Mental health is as important as your physical wellbeing,” Dr. Armstrong says, brushing auburn hair from her face.
No. I don’t need a head doctor in my past. In my bones.
“But I’m fine.”
“Son, you beat the shit out of Presley Tomes and then went incommunicado. You’ve stirred the media into a frenzy, showing up here with his sister…”
I hear every third word. My phone’s been buzzing nonstop since it charged enough to wake up. My brain’s sprinting through what to do with Finley during the game. I can’t leave her alone. Our parents will know where I am. Presley will, too. They will drag her away if they can.
“I don’t know what kind of revenge plot it is. But it’s not what I expect from the hardworking, focused athlete I know. So, maybe you are fine, but maybe isn’t going to put my mind at ease.”
“What?”
Dr. Armstrong leans in, studying me. I clamp my hand around the phone like it could make me bulletproof.
“I’m currently in the process of setting up a schedule for all players on the roster,” she says, careful and precise. “There’s a lot of pressure on everyone to perform and live up to the expectations of the fans and the board. It can become tiresome and take its toll.”
Coach stands and moves to the window. “It’s Connie’s job to help each member of the team, including myself, to ease some of that tension.”
“It’ll be a weekly chat to unload or even put issues that are bothering you into perspective.”
I nod. Fine. Check the box. Let me get back to Finley. Every time I clock the time on the desk, my stomach flips. The longer she’s out of sight, the tighter it winds.
“My assistant will email you the link to my schedule so you can pick your slot,” she finishes, gives Coach a tidy nod, then adds at the door, “Don’t listen to the stigma. Silence is overrated.”
The quiet after she leaves hangs dense. Coach drifts somewhere inside his own head, and I start to rise. He snaps back, pinning me with laser focus.
“You’re one of the best players that I’ve worked with, Sylkes.” His tone lightens, or maybe the praise lands where I didn’t know I needed it. “Morrow, too. The two of you together are a thing of beauty. Add the other guys… hell, I don’t think we’ve had a team this strong in forever.”
He circles back to the desk and drops into his chair. Mid-fifties and still built like a wall, silver only frosting his temples. He gathers papers into a folder and sets it before me. Complaint paperwork—our GM filing on Presley.
“A team is only as strong as its weakness,” he says.
I look up. Speechless. He actually did it.
When I close the file, he goes on, “The most optimal combination of experience and talent means nothing if discipline is lacking.”
Okay…
“I can’t have my players acting out, causing scenes and disruptions. Son, you’re a great player, and I would be doing you wrong if I swept this… situation under the rug. Maybe it was a lapse in judgment, or we can chalk it down to immaturity. You’re still young…”
“Is that why you want me to see the shrink?”
He chuckles, shakes his head. “No, I want you to talk to Dr. Armstrong because I fear that your perpetual silence is a lot louder in here—” He hovers a finger over my forehead, then lowers it to my mouth. “—than it is from here.”
Heat crawls up my neck. He isn’t wrong.
“That’s not me disciplining you, Eli. That’s me giving a damn about you as a person.” He scrubs both hands through his hair and breathes out a rough laugh. “I’m in half a mind to bench you for—”
“What?” My heart drops. “Why?”
“Because your actions have shown me that you either need to watch and learn what being part of the team means, or you need to sit back and remind yourself of what being a part of this team entails.”
What the hell?
“But Coach—”
“If you got a suit, I expect you to sit in the press box. If not, you can watch the game here.”
That’s it.
He opens his laptop and disappears behind the screen. I sit there, numb. He’s taking away the only place my head goes quiet.
I drag myself out of the suite. Fine. Then I take Finley and fly back to LA. I’m not playing anyway, so—
“Eli,” Coach calls as I ease the door shut so it doesn’t slam.
I lean back in. He gives me a warm smile. Proud, somehow, even while he’s laying down the line. Like he knows I’ll do right.
“Discipline isn’t punishment. I’m not punishing you, Son. I’m giving you the opportunity to grow. To prove that you are the great man I know you to be. Talk to Dr. Armstrong.”
He has no idea what he’s asking. Speaking is hard. Not speaking has kept me alive.
“And Sylkes?”
“Yes, Coach?”
“See you at the arena,” he says, formal as a dismissal—and an invitation.
I don’t want to let him down more than I already have. Which means leaving Finley. There’s only one other person I trust to claw tooth and nail for her the way I will.
Christina’s thread is pinned at the top of my notifications, buzzing from the moment Finley and I were photographed at the Portland airport. The last text is the one I need.
Christina
Since you’re ignoring me, you leave me no choice, Elijah Sylkes! I’m on my way.
I breathe something close to relief as I reply. My hands shake while I walk the hall toward Jayden’s room. There’s nothing left in me. I’ve maxed out on done. All that’s left is to protect Finley. To get her the life she deserves.
Whatever it takes. However it comes.