CHAPTER 6 #2
Simon loosened his tie. “Robert has tolerated your penalties because you win games. He will not tolerate you interfering with his family.”
“He hired me to interfere with his family.”
Simon looked at me. “What does that mean?”
I had told no one beyond Mark, Noah, and the men directly involved. Every additional person became another possible leak. But Simon had represented me since my first professional contract and had once spent three nights outside Ben’s hospital room without billing a minute.
“Robert asked me to monitor Olivia after threats connected to Parker,” I said. “The arrangement continued longer than it should have.”
“How much longer?”
I did not answer.
His expression shifted from professional concern to personal disappointment. “Alex.”
“I know.”
“No. You keep using that phrase as if awareness equals repair.”
Olivia’s accusation again, now in Simon’s voice.
“I am stopping,” I said.
“Because she discovered it or because you understand why it was wrong?”
“Both.”
“Those are different stages of guilt.”
I looked at him. “Did everyone attend the same therapy seminar?”
“No. Some of us learned not to treat fear as a management strategy.”
The elevator opened into the lobby. Reporters waited beyond the security glass. Simon stopped me before the exit.
“The league suspension is manageable. The larger danger is narrative. Parker is creating a story in which you are violent, Robert is corrupt, and Olivia is compromised by both men.”
“He has evidence.”
“He has fragments. Narratives are how fragments become verdicts.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Do not lie. Do not volunteer private details. And for the love of every contract I have negotiated, do not touch anyone in front of a camera.”
Outside, the press surged toward us.
I gave the prepared statement: I accepted the suspension, disagreed with parts of the league’s review, and remained committed to the team. One reporter shouted whether Olivia Carter had influenced my discipline.
I kept walking.
Another asked whether I had assaulted a man beneath Titan Crown after the charity gala.
That stopped me.
Simon’s hand closed around my elbow.
The reporter raised his phone. “A source says team security cleaned blood from a restricted tunnel.”
Parker had begun releasing the scene.
“Who is your source?” I asked.
“You know I cannot say.”
“Then you do not have a question. You have bait.”
Cameras captured the answer.
Simon pushed me into the car.
During the drive, Noah sent a still image from the arena loading dock. Martin Vale entered through a staff door at 1:14 a.m. the night of the gala carrying a black case. Gerard followed twenty minutes later through another entrance. Vale’s credential opened both routes.
A third figure appeared near the freight elevator.
The resolution was poor. Broad shoulders. Team jacket. Face hidden beneath a cap.
I recognized the walk.
Coach Mark Davis.
I called him.
He answered on the second ring. “How bad was the hearing?”
“Why were you in the loading dock before Gerard arrived?”
Silence.
Simon turned toward me.
Mark exhaled. “He contacted me first.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“Because he claimed you were responsible for Evan’s death and demanded I bring him a copy of your development medical records.”
“So you went alone.”
“I went to determine whether he had evidence.”
The hypocrisy would have been funny under other circumstances.
“What did he show you?”
“A photograph of you in Evan’s hospital room. A payment ledger. Nothing I could verify.”
“Did Vale see you?”
“I did not know Vale was there.”
“Camera says otherwise.”
“I left before Gerard arrived. Vale may have been watching.”
Mark’s voice carried shame beneath the control. Coaches demanded truth from players while believing leadership entitled them to private risks.
“Tell Olivia,” I said.
“You tell her.”
“No. It is your omission.”
He went quiet again.
“You sound like her,” he said.
“I am told that is happening.”
Mark agreed to meet us at the arena with a written account. I ended the call and sent Noah instructions to preserve the footage.
Simon watched me. “You chose not to handle that alone.”
“Do not make it ceremonial.”
“I am recording rare behavior.”
At a red light, my phone displayed Olivia’s name. No call, only the location-sharing request she had created for the investigation. She had chosen to let me see her route from the forensic lab to Titan Crown for the next two hours.
The permission affected me more than constant access ever had.
I accepted without expanding the time window.
Simon noticed the screen. “That is trust.”
“It is logistics.”
“Of course.”
We reached the arena thirty minutes before Olivia. I met Mark in the coaching office. He admitted Gerard had used Evan’s death to draw him into the loading dock and that Vale’s presence suggested the security chief had been coordinating every contact.
“You should step away from the investigation,” I said.
“I am the coach.”
“You are also a possible witness Parker can discredit.”
Mark removed his glasses. “And you are a possible suspect he can provoke.”
“We are all compromised.”
“Then we decide whether compromise means uselessness or honesty.”
The answer stayed with me.
I wrote a complete account of the tunnel fight before anyone asked. Every strike. Every threat Gerard made. Every choice I could be charged for later.
Simon read it and said, “This can damage your career.”
“It is true.”
He nodded once and placed it in his briefcase.
By the time we entered Titan Crown, the story had already reached every sports network in the country.
At Titan Crown, reporters gathered outside the players’ entrance. Olivia stood behind a podium inside the media room, explaining the suspension with the kind of controlled clarity that made chaos feel temporary.
She did not excuse me.
“The league determined that Captain Morgan’s response exceeded acceptable conduct,” she said. “The Titans accept the decision. We also expect the league to review the late contact and verbal provocation that preceded the incident.”
A reporter asked whether I had an anger problem.
Olivia’s expression sharpened.
“Reducing a player to a diagnosis from a video clip is irresponsible. Discuss the conduct. Do not invent medical conclusions.”
Another reporter asked whether ownership had lost confidence in me.
“Alex Morgan remains captain of the Chicago Titans.”
The statement landed harder than it should have.
She saw me at the back of the room but did not react.
Afterward, I found her in the empty media corridor.
“You risked your credibility,” I said.
“I stated facts.”
“You could have let communications handle it.”
“Our communications director missed a second briefing. Her access logs show she entered the arena at nine and never badged out.”
“Missing?”
“Possibly hiding.”
“Or taken.”
Olivia nodded. “Luke is checking.”
I looked at the faint exhaustion beneath her eyes. “Did the lab examine the photograph?”
“Original print. At least eight years old. My mother’s fingerprints are on the edge.”
“So she handled it.”
“Yes.”
“And Parker?”
“Partial print, likely his.”
She folded her arms, but the gesture looked like an attempt to hold herself together.
I stepped closer and stopped.
“May I?”
Her gaze lifted.
I nodded toward the loose strand of hair caught against her lip.
For a second she looked almost wounded by the question.
Then she said, “Yes.”
I brushed the strand back, my fingers grazing her cheek.
The contact was brief.
It burned through me.
Her breath caught.
I lowered my hand.
“Alex,” she whispered.
My phone vibrated.
Noah had sent a file.
Executive access report: Titan Crown Arena.
Martin Vale’s credential had opened Olivia’s apartment building, the service tunnel, and the communications office on three separate nights.
The final entry was from six minutes earlier.
Vale had just used his master code to enter Robert Carter’s private suite.
Olivia read the screen.
“My father is there.”
I called Robert.
No answer.
Olivia was already running.