Chapter 36
WYATT CHASE
We’re all sitting at the kitchen island eating breakfast–pancakes in a vague shape that Asher insists is Mickey Mouse–when there’s a knock at the door.
He got home late from the revelry with the team, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hate not waking up with him. But bright and early, he let himself in with his key, and by the time that I woke up, the scent of maple syrup and bacon was luring me downstairs.
And okay, maybe the idea of seeing him in an apron, too.
He’s already dressed for the day–which is a shame, personally–but Lyla’s been talking about us all going ice-skating for weeks, and the ponds are finally frozen enough that we can do it safely.
The situation with Zane should have us both more on guard, but it seems like we’ve both decided that no matter what happens, this isn’t the end for us. We just don’t know exactly how everything else is going to play out.
I give him a questioning look. We’ve gotten better at that around Lyla. Communicating without saying anything.
He raises his shoulders and shakes his head. He doesn’t know who’s here either.
“Daddy, the door,” Lyla chides. I stand up, knowing that if I don’t move quickly, she’ll open it instead. Our saving grace so far is that she’s working her way through an especially big bite of pancake and she knows not to eat and run at the same time.
My slippers are quiet on the hardwood floors, but I walk with purpose. I don’t know who’d be showing up at eight a.m. on a Tuesday morning, and I don’t like it.
I like it even less when I open the door enough to see who’s waiting on the other side.
Zane.
My lip curls in disgust without me realizing it. “What are you doing here?” I say quietly but with as much menace as I can imbue. “Can’t whatever bullshit you have planned at least wait until we’re back at practice?”
I know that I shouldn’t push him, but I can’t help it. I hate this feeling of powerlessness. And I especially hate that he showed up at my house where I live with my daughter. This fucking loser has absolutely zero lines he isn’t willing to cross.
“Fifty grand,” he says, crossing his arms. He has a baseball cap pulled down over his face like we’re having some clandestine meeting.
“Excuse me?” It’s all that I can think to say because this motherfucker cannot be saying what I think he’s saying. Is he really shaking me down?
He adjusts his baseball cap, and it’s then I see the deep bruise purpling around his eye. If he was anyone else, I’d ask if he’s okay.
But he’s not.
He’s the guy that’s trying to blackmail me, and it’s taking everything that I have not to reach out and choke him with my bare hands.
I watch as he tilts his chin up and adjusts his hat. “Fifty grand. That’s the going rate these days for my silence.”
“That’s not happening,” I balk at his batshit crazy words. Because that’s what they are. Like I have fifty grand to throw around? And if I did, it would be going in Lyla’s college fund, not into hands so scummy the money would probably disintegrate on contact.
The door’s still mostly closed, but I hear Asher and Lyla moving behind me.
I know without seeing them that he’s encouraging her to go upstairs to get washed up and then dressed for the day.
He can probably feel the tension crackling from across the room, and whatever plays out next, he doesn’t want Lyla to see.
I don’t either.
Just thinking about what’s happening right now has me holding onto my anger by the loosest thread imaginable.
Somehow, I manage to wait until I hear Lyla hit the stairs to tell him, “You show up at my house, where I live with my daughter, and you try to pull this shit? What the fuck is wrong with you, Zane?”
And yeah, I still have a ton of guilt that I’m the reason all of us are in this situation right now, but I’ll self-flagellate later for my sins.
He puts his hands in his pockets. “Well, my apologies for trying to give you as much notice as possible.”
I open the door wider now, so that I can lunge at him if I need. Or want. It’s fifty-fifty at this point. “You could give me a day or a year, and it doesn’t change anything. I’m not giving you any money.”
“Come on,” he says, a hint of pleading in his voice that surprises me. “You don’t have some rainy day fund from when you played pro? I find that hard to believe.”
I scoff. Between eye surgeries, going back to school to become a physical therapist, and raising a child, he’s lucky that I have two nickels to rub together. “You can find whatever you want hard to believe, but it’s the truth. You’re shaking the wrong tree.”
But he’s not letting up.“You’ll be blacklisted from any team when this comes out. You’ll be lucky if you can get a job as a school’s towel boy.”
Which tells me that he’s desperate or he thinks I’m lying. Maybe both.
It’s not until I feel the warm press of Asher’s hand against the small of my back that I let out a long exhale. It means that Lyla’s safely upstairs. Desperate people do desperate things, and I’m not sure how close to the edge Zane actually is.
With Lyla in the house, I’m never going to take the chance to find out.
Asher stays out of sight, but knowing that he has my back makes it easier to say, “Zane, I’m shutting the door now. And if you ever come to my house again, I’m calling the police.”
Surprisingly, he takes a small step back. “Friday. I’d really hate to have to go to Coach Donovan.” He’s faking a sympathetic tone, like he’s actually doing me a favor.
There’s no point in telling him no again. I shut the door and turn around, pressing my back against it while the lock automatically clicks into place.
Asher’s looking at me with hard, steely eyes, and I clock that his hands are balled into fists. “You practiced a lot more self-restraint than I’d have managed,” he says through gritted teeth.
The adrenaline from the last few minutes is wearing off, and I feel like I ran a marathon. I take long, slow inhales before exhaling. When Asher puts his hand on my chest, steadying me, I wonder if my legs are going to give out.
I’m not sure what to do. Loving him is the thing that’s holding me together right now, but it’s also what’s tearing my life–and his–apart.
We’re at the part of the year where most athletes are back in town for practice but school hasn’t started back up yet. Which means that I wasn’t sure that Damian would be around or available, but I took a chance anyway.
He responded to my text maybe a little too fast, but that’s a problem for another day. I left Lyla with Asher and hopped on the highway, taking a drive that I used to make everyday.
I need to get more information, and I sure as hell can’t ask anyone at Radford for it. And since Zane and I aren’t exactly Facebook friends, this is my best bet.
I pull into the coffee shop close to the D2 school where I used to work and cut the engine. It’s cold as hell and there are flurries floating through the air, so I get inside as quickly as possible.
Damian’s already seated at a table, a hopeful smile on his face. Too bad he has no idea what my request to meet up was actually about.
“Hey,” he says, gesturing toward a coffee across from him. “I grabbed you a drink already. I hope that was okay.”
I pull a five dollar bill out of my pocket and slide it across the table as I sit down. “Thanks.”
He looks at the money but doesn’t pick it up. “I was a little surprised when I got your text,” he says, trying to gauge what’s going on right now.
Well, that makes two of us.
“I need to talk to you about Zane Moretti.”
To his credit, Damian looks genuinely confused. “Zane? I haven’t seen him in a while. You two work together now, right?”
“We do. And it was especially fun to find out that you outed me to him. Really classy considering you’re the one in the closet.
” I’d meant to slow roll into this, but I’m still so keyed up from Zane showing up at my door and trying to shake me down.
And maybe I’m still a little pissed at Damian, too.
Which isn’t necessarily fair to him, considering that even though outing me was a shitty thing, I’m in this mess because it was Asher who I fell for and not because I’m queer.
Silence hangs between us, but I think that Damian can see how close to the edge I am. This isn’t a casual catch-up between old co-workers or the chance to rekindle a moment that passed.
No. I need answers, and he’s going to be the one to give them to me.
He picks up his coffee cup and then puts it back down again. “Zane and I were tight for a while when we played in the beer league. Just friends,” he clarifies. “But I really don’t see him anymore. That’s the truth.”
“Why don’t you see him anymore?”
“He didn’t join the league this year.” Damian pauses before he adds, “And when I heard he’d gotten into some heavier stuff, I didn’t feel the need to reach out.”
It doesn’t surprise me that Damian’s a fair-weather friend. Add it to the list along with gossip and coward.
“Heavy like drugs?” That would make the most sense, given how Zane’s looked like absolute shit lately.
Now, Damian’s rolling his disposable coffee cup around in his hands, looking down at it instead of me.
“Heavy like sports betting. You know how strict colleges are about that these days. We used to watch games together, so I knew that he was placing some bets. And I never saw him bet on college sports.”
Betting on any sports is a big no as a collegiate athlete or member of the staff.
And the NCAA’s been cracking down hard these past few years with the scandals that have come out in football and basketball.
They’re loosening the reins on players making their own money from endorsement deals, but tightening them when it comes to betting.
Which makes sense, given that it’s such a slippery slope.
“Look… you didn’t hear this from me…”
Just like I’m sure Zane didn’t hear from Damian about my sexuality, but that’s a conversation for another day. I tilt my head, waiting for whatever he’s going to say.
Finally, he tells me, “Last I heard, he was using information that he got from his position to place illegal college bets. That kind of thing gets around the beer league, especially when so many of us used to play in college.” My disgust must show on my face because he adds, “And I wasn’t cool with that and told him.
I still see him around the rink sometimes, but I think he knows that he’s not exactly welcome to join the league again. ”
“But you didn’t do anything about it?” If Zane was betting on college games, especially Radford, then he was doing it illegally. Which means bookies and knee caps and dudes that you do not want to owe money to.
His nostrils flare. “Like I said, it was just something I heard. I hear lots of crazy shit at the rink.”
I match his energy, leaning forward. “So you didn’t think it was worth an anonymous call that a guy who’s literally responsible for player safety is placing bets on those very players?”
It all makes sense. How fucked up he’s been all season. Knowing about injuries but not reporting them. And now, the shakedown for the fifty grand that he’s probably in the hole.
“I’m sorry that we aren’t all graced with your precious ethical standards, Chase.
I’m at a D2 school as an assistant coach and play in a beer league with other guys who love to relive the good old days.
I try to do right by both of my teams and keep my head above water.
Me blowing up my own life–because you know these things never stay anonymous–didn’t seem like a great trade-off for reporting a rumor. ”
I want to tell him off, but then I know that would make me the biggest hypocrite in the world. I’ve known something was going on with Zane this season. Only, I didn’t want to push it because I was afraid of what he’d do. I’m as much to blame as Damian. Maybe worse.
A lot of good my standards did for me. I fell in love with a player who I was treating and put countless others in harms’ way to keep that love a secret.
And I’ve been deluding myself that it’s somehow different because of how I feel about Asher. But if I really loved him, I wouldn’t put him at risk the way that I’ve been doing. The few sips of coffee that I’ve managed to choke down are rolling in my stomach.
I’ve been struggling so much because I’m sneaking around and trying to come up with contingency plans and looking at this like a game of chess that I can somehow win if I outsmart Zane.
I need to get out of here. I stand up quickly, taking my coffee cup with me. “I appreciate the information, Damian.”
“Can you keep my name out of it?” he asks, hopeful and pathetic at the same time.
I nod, knowing that my words will sting him when I say, “Sure thing. It’ll be like you never existed.”