33
Nash
First thing Sunday morning, I got called into a meeting with the coaches.
Perfect. I was hungover, which was very clearly against the rules, and no amount of showering, chugging water, or popping painkillers could hide that fact.
I looked like shit. Felt like it too. But maybe it didn’t matter anymore.
The story about me punching Josh? It was front-page news.
Bad Boy Reed Worse than Ever. I was sure Mom was real proud of that one, just like the Empires management.
Isaac too, I bet. I couldn’t imagine that he’d be happy to try having a successful baseball career while sharing my last name.
As for my father, I didn’t even want to imagine the disappointment I’d see in his eyes.
There were pictures everywhere. Me screaming at Josh.
Me throwing my fist. And, of course, the kind of shots I’d accused Josh of setting up: Amy gazing at me with those pathetic puppy eyes, her hand on my chest. I hated to admit it, but the pictures looked bad.
Real bad. I got why people assumed I was out trying to hook up.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the new rumor mill had me pegged as a drunk brawler.
I had numerous messages on my phone from my agent, the club management, and the social media manager. I didn’t even bother to listen to them. I knew what they’d say. There were other messages, too, from my parents, Isaac, Mitch, and some of the other guys.
But nothing from Kennedy.
Not that I expected it.
I was sure she’d seen it. How could she not? Those pictures were plastered across every site, like this country had nothing better to worry about than who I was fighting and where I was sticking my dick.
Then I noticed the missed call.
There was no voicemail. Just a missed call.
But it was enough to catch me off guard.
She hadn’t responded to any of the messages I’d left for her over the last week.
I’d tried to explain myself. But nothing.
I had no idea what kind of bullshit Josh had been feeding her or for how long.
My one hope had been to talk to her in person when she came back to New York, but she’d canceled that trip. Not that she’d told me. Sammy had.
We were playing three or four games a week, and with the season sliding and us trying to claw our way into a playoff spot, it wasn’t like I could just take off and go see her. Even if I wanted to. Even if I needed to.
And even if I could, I didn’t know where she was.
Kennedy spent most of her days traveling from city to city, always in meetings, always on the move, while I was stuck here with practices, games, and pressure I couldn’t seem to handle anymore—watching everything between us fall apart through a damn phone screen.
And now a missed call. What the hell did that mean?
The whole thing was beyond frustrating. If I hadn’t already destroyed what Kennedy and I had, this was probably the last straw. Those pictures and those articles . . . I couldn’t imagine her getting past them, unless she let me explain.
Maybe that call had been my chance?
Or maybe it was already too late.
The meeting with management was brutal. The fact that I’d hit another Empires player only made it worse. They didn’t give a damn when I tried to explain that Josh had provoked me, that he’d been feeding lies to the press and to Kennedy. No, that was just me trying to justify my actions.
After the coaches, I had to sit through an hour-and-a-half lecture on the importance of public appearance and good conduct, complete with brochures and not-so-subtle suggestions about alcohol counseling. Then came the part that gutted me: I was told flat-out that I was a disappointment to the club.
I was left with a strong warning, which in plain English meant, “Fuck up again and you’re suspended.”
And it only went downhill from there.
We lost the next game.
Josh leaned against the wall, watching me get dressed. I tried to ignore him, but it was getting impossible. He was always there, hovering at the edge of my vision, making snide comments, glaring or smirking like he knew some fucking secret.
I kept it together until he brought up Kennedy and said he was going to see her now that she was “available and desperate for male companionship.” Then he started thrusting his hips, making it crystal clear what kind of companionship he meant.
And that was it. I saw red.
“Don’t fucking talk about her like that,” I growled.
“Why do you care?” He smirked, pushing off the wall. “You’ve got Amy.”
I dropped my shirt onto the bench, turning toward him in nothing but my slacks. “You know I’m not with her, you asshole.”
“Uh-huh,” he mocked. “The pictures say otherwise. And Kennedy seems to think otherwise too.”
That threw me for a loop. How the hell did he know what Kennedy thought? Had he been in touch with her?
“Yeah, that’s right. When was the last time you even spoke to her?” Josh goaded, his grin stretching wider, mocking me, daring me to make a stupid move. And it really fucking hurt. She wouldn’t respond to me, but she talked to him of all people?
“Stay the fuck away from her!” I shouted.
The locker room went dead quiet. Twenty-plus guys in various stages of undress stopped, turning to watch the argument.
Josh just shook his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded like loser.
My jaw clenched. “What the fuck did you say?” I demanded, stepping closer.
“I said Kennedy might need a real man. Someone who can take care of all her needs after all the bullshit you’ve put her through.”
“Oh yeah?” I snorted, fury crackling through me. “And what? You think you’re that man? You think you’re gonna step right in and replace me?”
“There’s no need to step in,” he taunted. “You’re already so far gone.” He started to laugh, and my fists clenched tight at my sides as I watched him ridicule me. From behind me, I caught Mitchell’s low warning.
I dragged in a breath. “Whatever,” I said flatly. “If there’s one thing she’s not, it’s desperate. She’ll never fall for you.”
Josh’s smirk widened. “Guess we’ll see. She appreciated the flowers I sent.”
My fist connected with his face before he had time to wipe the smile away.
But this time, once wasn’t enough. Rage tore through me, and I launched at him.
He swung back, catching me square on the chin, but the hit only fueled me.
Shouts erupted around us as fists flew, chaos exploding in the locker room.
Hands grabbed at me, trying to pull me away. It took Mitchell, Bryce, and Larsson to separate us. Sarjenko and Ross held Josh back while he thrashed against them, his lip split, blood coating his teeth again.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Mitchell roared at Josh, throwing his body in between us.
I could feel blood dripping down my face from the cut above my eyebrow.
“You’re such a fucking asshole, Reed!” Josh bellowed.
I spat out a mouthful of blood, chest heaving.
“I’m gonna fucking ruin you!” he added.
I was pretty sure he’d already managed to do that.
“Calm down. Both of you.”
The chaos in the dressing room died instantly at the sound of our head coach’s voice cutting through it like a blade.
“I want both of you in my office.” His gaze snapped to Josh. “You first,” he demanded. Then he turned to me, steel-gray eyes locking on mine. His tone was just as cold as his stare. “Your career is hanging on by a fucking thread, Nash. And it’s really fucking thin.”
Then he turned, the door slamming shut behind them.
“Goddamn it,” Mitchell groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
I had nothing to say. I stood there bruised, bloodied, the sting of Josh’s words still rattling in my skull. My career might’ve just ended, and the truth was, I wasn’t even sure if I cared.
“Dude.” Anderson spoke up for the first time from across the room, shaking his head. “That was really fucked up, man. How he talked about your girl and all that.”
“Yeah,” Bryce chimed in, his voice tight with disgust. “That was low. Even for him.”
After more than half the team backed me up and agreed that Josh had provoked me, the coach sent me to the team doctor and slapped me with a fine and a three-game suspension for conduct detrimental to the team.
I knew I’d gotten off easy. It could’ve been worse.
A hell of a lot worse. But I also knew if I didn’t get my shit together soon, my career as I knew it would be over.
I shut my phone off and shoved it into my bag as I left the arena. On the way back to the apartment, I had the driver stop at the liquor store. I picked up two bottles of Jack and a twelve-pack of beer.
It wasn’t like I had anywhere else to be for the next week. I wasn’t even allowed to leave New York City.