17. Sam
17
SAM
Sam
T he phone's shrill ring cuts through the silence of my study. Joe's name flashes on the screen. I snatch it up, my jaw already clenching.
"What?" I bark.
Joe's voice crackles through the speaker. "Sam, we've got a situation. You need to get down to the team offices. Now."
"What the fuck for?"
"A steroid dealer just came forward. Says you bought from him."
The words hit me like a freight train. My vision blurs, rage boiling up from my gut. "That's bullshit!"
"I know, I know. But we gotta deal with this. I'm doing everything I can, but-"
I cut him off. "No, you listen to me. Someone's setting me up. I don't touch that shit. Ever."
"Sam, calm down-"
"Don't tell me to fucking calm down!" I roar, hurling a nearby vase against the wall. It shatters, water and flowers exploding across the hardwood. "My entire career is on the line because of some lying piece of shit!"
"That's why we need you here. To sort this out."
I'm pacing now, my free hand clenched so tight I can feel my nails biting into my palm. "I'll be there in ten. And Joe? You better have answers when I arrive."
I hang up, resisting the urge to smash the phone. Every muscle in my body is coiled, ready to spring. I want to hit something, someone. Destroy whatever's in my path.
Instead, I storm out of the study, slamming the door behind me. The sound echoes through the mansion, a physical manifestation of the fury coursing through my veins.
As I stalk down the hallway, I catch a glimpse of Kim peeking out from her room. For a moment, our eyes lock. The fear in hers only fuels my rage.
"Stay in your room," I snarl, not breaking stride.
I don't wait for a response. Right now, all I can focus on is getting to those offices and tearing apart whoever dared to accuse me of cheating.
Instead, I jump into my car and fly out of my driveway. I slam my foot on the accelerator, weaving through traffic like a man possessed. The engine of my Aston Martin roars, matching the fury pulsing through my veins. Red lights? Fuck 'em. I blow past, horns blaring in my wake.
The team offices loom ahead. I screech into the parking lot, leaving rubber on asphalt. As I storm through the lobby, people scatter. Smart move.
I'm about to round the corner to the conference room when I spot him. Matthew fucking Harley, leaning against the wall like he doesn't have a care in the world.
"Hey, Sam!" he calls out, grinning like we're old buddies. "Good to see you, man. Crazy stuff going on, huh?"
I freeze, my hands balling into fists. The audacity of this prick. After all the shit between us, he's acting like we're teammates of the year?
"The fuck you smiling about, Harley?" I snarl, closing the distance between us in two strides.
He holds up his hands, still wearing that shit-eating grin. "Whoa, easy there. Just being friendly."
"Friendly?" I laugh, the sound harsh and humorless. "Since when are we friends?"
Matthew shrugs, his eyes gleaming with something I can't quite place. "Team's gotta stick together, right? Especially with all this steroid nonsense floating around."
My vision goes red. Before I can stop myself, I've got him by the collar, slamming him against the wall. "You know something about that, Harley?"
He doesn't flinch, just keeps smiling. "Me? Nah, I'm clean as a whistle. Unlike some people, apparently."
I tighten my grip, ready to wipe that smug look off his face. But a hand on my shoulder pulls me back.
"Sam, cool it," Joe's voice cuts through the haze of rage. "We've got bigger problems than Harley right now."
I release Matthew, shoving him away. He straightens his shirt, that infuriating smile never leaving his face.
"See you around, Sam," he calls as I let Joe steer me towards the conference room. "Good luck with everything!"
It takes every ounce of self-control not to turn back and finish what I started. But Joe's right. I've got a shitstorm to deal with, and Matthew Harley's sudden friendliness is just the tip of the iceberg.
Joe practically shoves me into the conference room, his hand a vice on my shoulder. The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on. Barrett's there, along with a bunch of suits I assume are from legal. Their faces are grim, like they're at a fucking funeral.
"Sit down, Sam," Barrett orders, his voice tight.
I don't. Instead, I plant my hands on the table, leaning forward. "What the hell is going on?"
Barrett sighs, running a hand through his thinning hair. "There's a drug dealer coming forward, Sam. He's got receipts, dates, everything." He shakes his head. "I know that Joe says that the test is wrong, but with this, Sam-"
"It's bullshit!" I roar, slamming my fist on the table. The whole thing shakes, pens rattling. "I've never touched that shit in my life!"
One of the suits clears his throat. "Mr. Warwick, please-"
I whirl on him, teeth bared. "Don't 'Mr. Warwick' me. This is a fucking set-up!"
Joe steps in, hands up. "Sam, calm down. We're here to fix this."
I laugh, the sound harsh and bitter. "Fix it? How the fuck are you gonna fix a lie?"
Barrett stands, his chair scraping against the floor. "It's not looking good, Sam. The test results-"
"Were fucking shit!" I snarl, getting right in his face. "I just told you that. Someone's messing with them. Or did you forget I volunteered for that test?"
The room goes quiet. I can see the doubt in their eyes, the uncertainty. Good. Let them squirm.
Joe breaks the silence. "We can prove it." He turns to Barrett. "Another test. Right now. No warning, no prep time."
I nod, jaw clenched. "Do it. Take all the blood you want. I'm clean."
Barrett hesitates, glancing at the suits. They huddle together, whispering urgently. I cross my arms, waiting. My foot taps an impatient rhythm on the floor.
Finally, Barrett turns back to me. "Alright, Sam. We'll do another test. But if this comes back positive-"
"It won't," I cut him off, already rolling up my sleeve. "Let's get this over with."
As a nurse is called in, I catch Joe's eye. He nods, a silent promise. We're gonna find out who's behind this, and when we do, they're gonna wish they'd never fucked with Sam Warwick.
They dismiss me after the test, which is for the best. But my anger is still brewing when I storm into my mansion a half an hour later, slamming the door behind me. The sound echoes through the cavernous foyer, but it does nothing to quell the rage burning inside me. My fists clench and unclench at my sides as I stalk towards my home gym.
The familiar scent of sweat and rubber hits me as I enter. Without bothering to change, I head straight for the punching bag. My knuckles crack against the leather, each impact sending shockwaves up my arms. I lose myself in the rhythm, my vision blurring as I pummel the bag.
I don't know how long I've been at it when my phone rings. Sweat drips into my eyes as I glance at the screen. Joe. Fuck.
"What now?" I snap, snatching up a towel.
"Sam, we've got a problem," Joe's voice is tight. "Well, another one. That dealer? He's threatening to go to the press."
The towel drops from my hand. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."
"I wish I was. Look, you need to call your family's lawyers. Like, yesterday."
I run a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. "What about the test results?"
"We're still waiting, but Sam..." Joe hesitates. "Even if they come back clean, this press could end your career. It is the off season after all, so the results might not be the definitive clear you need."
The words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. "No," I growl. "I won't let that happen. I've worked too hard-"
"I know, I know," Joe cuts me off. "But we need to be prepared. Call the lawyers, Sam. Now."
The line goes dead. I stand there, phone in hand, my chest heaving. The silence of the gym feels oppressive now, closing in around me. I head for the stairs, deciding I'd rather go for a run outside.
But I can't outrun my thoughts. How did everything go so wrong so fast? And who the fuck is trying to take me down?
I will figure it out. And I will make that fucker pay.