Chapter Seventeen
Reece
The bad game lives in my bones for twenty-four hours.
Not the physical kind of bad, a sore shoulder, a tired arm, the normal byproduct of a heavy workload, but the kind where you walk off the mound knowing you let fifty thousand people down, and the worst part is you don’t care as much as you should.
You’re standing in the middle of a stadium the size of a small city, and the only thought in your head is whether Ava knows she’s the reason every pitch went sideways.
Apparently, that’s what rock bottom looks like for me. Not a blown ERA. Not a loss in the standings. A woman-shaped hole in the middle of my chest and zero pitches finding the strike zone.
Coach pulled me aside after. He didn’t yell.
Didn’t need to. He sat in his office with his arms crossed, his game face on, and told me to figure out whatever I had going on in my personal life, because the team needed me present, and I was anything but.
He was right, and we both knew it, and I walked out of there feeling about twelve years old.
The drive home took forever. I ordered food I didn’t eat.
Sat on my couch until two in the morning, running through the same loop—bad game, Ava’s voice on the phone two weeks ago telling me she won’t be the reason my career falls apart, Lena’s posts, the photographs outside the studio, the look on Ava’s face the last time I saw her before everything went sideways.
Somewhere around three a.m., I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started getting angry, not at Ava or even at Coach Bishop, but at myself for watching the whole thing spiral and doing nothing about the source.
I’ve had twenty-four hours to sit with it.
I’m done sitting.
The thing about Lena Hart is she is never hard to find.
She operates on the principle that visibility is power, and she has built her entire career on it.
She posts her location before she arrives anywhere.
She tags the restaurants, the events, the charity galas she attends, all in four-inch heels, with a glass of champagne and a smile calibrated for maximum impact.
I pull up her Instagram while Mack drives us to the Cougars Foundation Spring Gala, an event I’ve been dodging for three weeks and can no longer avoid without raising the kind of questions I’d rather not answer.
The venue is the Meridian Hotel, with black tie optional—an open bar is definitely not optional in my experience.
Her story from forty minutes ago—a mirror selfie, the Meridian lobby in the background, caption reading…
Ready for tonight :)
@MeridianHotel @CougarsFoundation
Perfect.
“You’ve got that face,” Mack says from the driver’s seat.
“I’ve got lots of faces.”
“You’ve got the one where you’ve decided to do something I’m going to have to talk you out of.”
“Then don’t talk me out of it.”
He glances over. “What are we doing?”
“I’m handling something. You’re driving and staying out of it.”
“Staying out of it isn’t really my skill set.”
“Develop the skill.”
He’s quiet for about thirty seconds, which is close to his limit. “Is this about Ava?”
“It’s about fixing a problem I should have fixed two months ago.”
“So yes.” He studies me. “Steele, whatever you’re planning—”
“I’m not planning anything.” I put my phone away. “I’m going to have a conversation.”
“With Lena.”
“With Lena.”
Mack exhales through his nose. “At the Foundation gala. With half the Cougars’ front office in attendance, three sports journalists I personally know by name, and at least one camera crew filming content for the organization’s social channels.”
“Sounds right.”
“You understand the word public is not generally considered a bonus in this type of situation.”
“Tonight it is.”
He pulls into the hotel drop-off lane, parks, and turns to face me fully, which means he’s about to say something he’s decided is important.
“For the record…” Mack says, “… I’m on your side.
I’ve been on your side since you came back from that studio the first time looking like someone had rearranged your entire worldview in forty-five minutes. ”
“She did.”
“I know she did. I watched you pitch for three seasons, and I’ve never seen you throw the way you threw in those two months.” He holds my gaze. “Or look the way you’ve looked the last two weeks. So go in there, handle it, but don’t torch the whole season in the process.”
“The season’s already half-torched. Might as well make it worth something.”
He lets me out.
The gala is exactly what galas always are… too many people crammed into a beautiful room, too much cologne, not enough air conditioning, and a silent auction full of items nobody wants but bids on anyway because the foundation is legitimate and the tax write-off is real.
I make it through ten minutes of mandatory handshaking and nodding at the right people before I find her.
Lena’s near the bar, predictably, in a red dress built for Instagram, surrounded by two women I half recognize from the sports media circuit. Her phone is in her hand despite the champagne flute in the other, and she’s laughing at something I can hear from fifteen feet away.
She sees me coming.
The laugh doesn’t stop, but her eyes shift into something calculated. Lena knew I’d be here tonight. She knew because she checked the guest list the way she checks everything for information she can use. She’s been doing it for years, and it used to impress me, but now I find it exhausting.
“Reece.” She opens her arms like we’re old friends at a reunion. “I was wondering if you’d actually show.”
“I show up to everything. You know that.” I keep my voice easy and conversational. Two people running into each other at an event, nothing to see here. “Can we talk?”
“We’re talking right now.”
“Privately.”
One of the women beside her clocks the exchange with the professional interest of someone who writes sports gossip for a living.
I recognize her now, Carla Mendez, contributor for three different platforms. Her presence tonight is either terrible luck or something Lena engineered.
I’m going with engineered. Lena never leaves anything to chance when she can arrange it instead.
“I’m in the middle of a conversation,” Lena says pleasantly.
“I can see that.” I look at Carla, who has the grace to appear mildly uncomfortable. “Five minutes, Lena. Then you can get back to whatever this is.”
Something flickers in her expression. She doesn’t like being managed in front of people, and she knows I know it. We dated for fourteen months, and I have the complete manual.
“Sure,” she says. The smile doesn’t waver. “Excuse me for a minute.”
Lena follows me to a quieter corner near the silent auction tables. The items sit in their display frames under soft lighting—a signed jersey, a resort weekend, and playoff tickets. I stop in front of the jersey display and turn around.
Lena crosses her arms. The calculated warmth from sixty seconds ago has evaporated. This is the version of her that few people see.
“I know why you’re upset about the photos,” she says before I can open my mouth.
“The photos I’m upset about are the ones taken outside Ink District Studio. The ones ending up on three separate sports blogs with captions implying a scandal. Those photos.”
“I don’t control sports blogs.”
“No, but you fed them the content.” I keep my voice level. “Security camera footage from a private business, Lena. Nobody stumbles across something like that.”
“I genuinely don’t know what you’re—”
“Stop.” The word comes out quietly but final. “I’m not here to fight. I’m not here to make a scene. I’m asking you to tell me the truth, and I’m asking once.”
She looks at me for a long moment. Then something shifts in her face, not guilt exactly, more the particular exhaustion of someone who has been running a story and grown tired of the upkeep.
“I knew someone who worked near the studio,” she says finally. “They noticed you going in and out. Late at night. Repeatedly.”
“And you had them photograph it.”
“I had them share what they saw.” Her chin lifts. “She has a Ring camera. On a public street. Nothing illegal about it.”
“Not illegal,” I agree. “Not accidental either. You sent those images to the blogs with framing designed to look like favoritism. You made it look like the coach’s daughter was being used for access.” I let the silence hold for a beat. “You made it look like her studio was a cover for something.”
“That’s one interpretation.”
“It’s the only interpretation, and you wrote it.”
She unfolds her arms and sets her champagne on the nearest auction table with more care than the gesture deserves. “You moved on fast. I thought you needed time after us. You always said you needed time.”
“I needed time from the relationship. Not from living.”
“She’s his daughter.”
“I’m aware of who she is.”
“The entire Cougars organization will eventually know what you’ve been doing. Your contract negotiations are in three months. Coach Bishop already watches you like—”
“Lena.” I wait until she stops. “What you did hurt was someone who had nothing to do with you and me. She wasn’t in our relationship. She wasn’t the reason it ended.”
“She’s the reason you stopped answering my messages.”
“I stopped answering your messages because we broke up,” I say it plainly, without heat. “Nine months ago. Every message after that was you trying to maintain a connection I wasn’t maintaining. The photos, the captions, the throwback post, none of that is grief. All of it is leverage.”
“I loved you.”
“I know you did. And I cared about you.” Something tightens in my chest, not the painful kind, more the kind that comes with being honest about something that’s been complicated for a long time.
“But caring about someone doesn’t give you the right to take them apart when they leave.
And it absolutely doesn’t give you the right to go after someone else to do it. ”