Liam
“Mr Anderson,” she said, forcing professionalism into her tone. “They’re expecting you in Conference Room A.”
Of course they were.
The weight of judgment pressed down on him with each step.
He had walked these halls countless times — after championship wins, during contract negotiations, through team restructurings.
But never had he felt this exposed, this vulnerable.
His personal life, his grief, his tentative steps toward happiness with Sunny — all laid bare for strangers to dissect and condemn.
Mike paused outside the conference room door. “Remember, stay calm no matter what they say. This is about image, not reality. We’ll get through this.”
The encouragement felt hollow as they entered the room to find team owner Gerald Parker standing at the head of the conference table, his imposing figure silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
General manager Ray Wilson sat to his right, flipping through what appeared to be a stack of printouts.
PR director Vanessa Campbell completed the trio, her sleek blonde bob and sharp pantsuit projecting cold efficiency.
Gerald didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Sit down, Anderson.”
Liam lowered himself into a chair, with Mike taking the seat beside him. The polished mahogany table reflected his tense expression back at him.
Vanessa slid a folder across the table. “Perhaps you’d like to see what we’re dealing
with.”
Inside was a curated collection of headlines and social media screenshots, each more scandalous than the last.
GRIEF, LUST perhaps he was being selfish, prioritizing his own happiness over his daughters’ privacy. The photos from Saint Lucia had already thrown their lives into chaos. What would happen if this continued?
His phone buzzed against the center console.
Alex Pasternak’s name flashed on the screen, igniting a fresh surge of anger.
He silenced the call and saw five missed texts waiting — two from teammates offering awkward support, one from his mother asking if he was okay, and two from other players clearly fishing for gossip.
Everyone wants a piece of me, he thought bitterly. Everyone thinks they deserve an explanation.
The rain intensified, sheets of water cascading down the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it. Visibility dwindled, and Liam pulled onto the shoulder, putting the car in park with a jerky motion.
A wave of helplessness washed over him. He was Liam Anderson, a feared power forward, a man used to solving problems with physicality and determination. But this — this he couldn’t body-check into submission. This he couldn’t outskate or outmuscle.
With a strangled cry of frustration, he slammed his fist into the dashboard. Pain shot through his hand, splitting the skin across his knuckles. The physical hurt was almost a relief, a counterpoint to the emotional storm within him.
Blood beaded along the raw skin of his hand as he sat there, breathing heavily and watching raindrops race down the windshield. Each drop followed its own chaotic path, colliding and merging with others before disappearing.
Like his life — once so straightforward, now a collision of grief and hope, public and private, past and potential future.