Chapter Twenty-Eight
I knew this circus was coming. I lit the match last night; now everyone wants to watch the fire burn.
Around me in the locker room, players are glued to their phones, texting and calling agents, arranging escape routes.
The conversations have that quality of controlled panic: hushed tones discussing Swedish leagues, Swiss contracts, the KHL as a possible option.
Everyone’s building lifeboats while insisting the ship isn’t sinking.
I stand by my stall, gripping a stick like it possesses answers or at least emotional support. The fallout from last night spreads through my chest.
Bunny won’t help Claire now. That bridge isn’t just burned; it’s been napalmed, the ashes scattered, the ground salted. And the secret I’ve been carrying like a tumor? It’s metastasized.
Time to tell Petra everything.
I escape to a quieter hallway—quiet being relative when there’s a media circus outside—and hover my thumb over Petra’s name like I’m about to detonate something. Which, essentially, I am.
She answers, happiness bursting in her voice, making my guilt multiply exponentially.
“You’ll never believe this,” she bubbles, her excitement a stark contrast to my impending doom.
“I found this Russian home goods store on the Lower East Side and just got the best pelmeni maker as a housewarming gift for Claire. She makes incredible dumplings, so I’m expecting her to cook for us at least a couple nights a week once she’s here. ”
I force myself to play along, though each word tastes like betrayal. “That sounds amazing.” The lie comes out smooth. I’m getting too good at this.
“She keeps avoiding telling me where she’s going to be dorm-ing,” Petra continues, oblivious to the fact that her sister can’t avoid telling her about accommodations that don’t exist. “So, I’m pretty sure that means she’s going to end up wanting to live with me for at least the first semester.”
I swallow hard, gripping the phone tight.
“Hey,” I interrupt, exhaling. “I need to see you tonight.”
“Okay…” she says.
“It’s important.”
Something in my tone must telegraph the disaster heading her way. “You’re scaring me, Liam. What’s going on?”
I close my eyes, searching for words. “It’s just something important we need to talk about. I love you. Everyone’s healthy.” Technically true, if you don’t count emotional health. “Just meet me at my place tonight.”
Her breathing falters. She knows something’s wrong. “Okay. I’ll be there around seven.”
When I hang up, I exhale like I’ve been underwater for the entire conversation. Step one complete. Now I just have to figure out how to destroy her world gently.
Before I can figure that out, Dewey comes sprinting out of the locker room.
“The owners caved!” he shouts, his face lit up like Christmas morning.
I blink, my brain struggling to switch tracks this quickly. “What?”
“They held an emergency league meeting this morning. All the owners joined in,” he explains, words tumbling over each other in excitement. “They’re agreeing to all our terms. No lockout. No lost games. We won, man!”
I can’t believe it. The players stood their ground. The league blinked first. We won.
But before the relief can even pretend to settle, my phone buzzes: Bunny Newman calling.
I hurry to the stairwell where I can be alone. No one needs to witness this.
“Hello,” I say.
“Congratulations, Liam. Looks like you got what you wanted.”
I grit my teeth hard.
“You fought the good fight,” she continues. “The players held firm; the owners backed down, and now everyone’s happy.”
I close my eyes, waiting for the knife.
“Well,” she adds with theatrical timing, “almost everyone.”
“And what does that mean?” I ask, though we both know I know exactly what it means.
She lets the silence stretch like taffy, sticky and uncomfortable.
“Unfortunately,” she finally says, voice sweet enough to cause diabetes, “I won’t be able to help Claire after all.”
The words land exactly where she aimed them, square in my chest. My grip on the phone tightens.
“Mrs. Newman—”
“Such a shame, too,” she sighs. “I really thought she had such potential. But, well…things didn’t work out, did they?”
“So that’s it?”
She laughs, soft, amused, like a cat that’s cornered a particularly stupid mouse. “Come now, Liam. You’re a smart man. You understand how these things work.”
My pulse drums in my ears.
“I wish Claire the very best,” she continues, twisting the knife, “wherever she ends up. Well, I won’t keep you, dear. Enjoy your victory.”
The line goes dead.
I stand frozen, phone still in hand, stomach churning like a washing machine full of regret. This is what winning looks like when you’ve lost everything that matters in the process.
The players won. The league caved. We’re getting everything we asked for—better contracts, more freedom, financial security.
But standing here in this hallway, phone warm in my hand from a call that will ruin lives, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve won the wrong game.
Like I’ve been playing Go Fish while everyone else was playing Russian Roulette, and somehow, I’m the one who ends up shot.
Tonight, I have to tell Petra everything about Claire’s lie. And my complicity. And how I chose a labor dispute over her sister’s future. The conversation plays in my head on repeat, each version worse than the last.
The facility buzzes with celebration around me. Teammates planning victory parties, agents calling with congratulations, the machinery of success grinding into motion. And here I stand, the designated team representative who represented everyone but the people who actually needed me.
Some victories, I’m learning, taste exactly like defeat. They just come with better press releases.