11. Blake #3
I finish what’s left of my breakfast, oatmeal, protein powder mixed in, banana slices on top. Functional. Fuel. I’ve had the same thing for years, but lately it tastes like ash. Or maybe that’s just me.
Mom sets her mug down a little too deliberately. Her hand settles over mine, warm and light, but the weight behind her words isn’t. “Blake, I’m really worried about you.”
I sip my coffee, mostly because I don’t know what else to do. “Yeah… you and me both.”
The silence stretches for a minute. Then my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, the screen lighting up with Grant Holloway. Dominion Sports Agency. Well, here we go.
I answer. “Morning, Grant. I figured I’d be hearing from you. Just didn’t know it’d be this quick.”
“Blake, are you free this morning? I need you to come in.”
I glance at the clock. Drills in just under two hours. “Well, I’ve got drills. What sort of time were you thinking?”
“Drills are the least of your problems at the moment,” Grant's voice is clipped, businesslike, but off. “Say…half an hour in my office?”
That cold little coil twists tighter in my gut. “Okay. I’ll be there.”
“Good.” He hangs up.
Mom’s watching me, one hand still cradling her coffee like it’s the only thing grounding her. “Trouble?”
I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “At the moment, is there anything but?”
I get to my feet, lean down, and give her a quick peck on the cheek. She squeezes my wrist, but doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to.
I walk out of the kitchen, each step heavier than it should be, make my way down the hall, open the front door, and step outside.
Hot air. New day.
***
Victoria Plaza is already a furnace by the time I pull into the parking lot.
The early-morning sun reflects off every steel and glass surface like Vegas is trying to blind me on purpose.
The Dominion Sports Agency building towers above everything else.
The glass-and-steel facade shines like it belongs in a tech billionaire’s wet dream.
The agency logo stretches across the top, lit even though it doesn’t need to be. Clean, bold font. No-nonsense.
I kill the engine, get out, and lock the truck.
The double-glass doors are flanked by those obnoxious LED-lit columns that flash red and white like it’s always show time here. Security is stationed on both sides, suited, earpiece-wearing, looking like they enjoy not smiling for a living.
One of them nods as I step closer. “Morning, Mr. Mitchell. You’re expected.”
Not sure if that’s supposed to be comforting or ominous, I reply, “Yeah. I figured.”
I walk through the entrance, into a lobby that smells faintly of air-conditioning and vanilla. The floors gleam, the walls scream wealth, and the receptionist doesn’t even look up right away, she’s too busy tapping at her phone.
She finally glances up, all poise and lipstick. “Good morning, Mr. Mitchell.” Her fingers fly over the keyboard with zero hesitation. “You can go right up to the fifth floor.”
I nod once, then head across the lobby. At the elevator bank, I press the button. The doors slide open, the polished metal interior gleaming.
I step in and press five. Lean back. The elevator hums to life, smooth and silent.
When it stops, the doors open to a hallway lined with more glass and steel and the softest carpet you could ever want to stomp dirt onto. Grant’s office is halfway down.
I walk up and knock twice.
“Come in.”
I push the door open and step inside.
Grant’s behind his desk, leaned back like he’s already exhausted, his arms crossed, and his expression so tight he could crack concrete with his jaw.
“You better tell me there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.” His voice is low and cutting. “Because right now, you’re radioactive.”
I drop into the chair opposite him, elbows on my knees. “Look, I know it’s bad—”
“Bad?” His laugh isn’t a laugh. “You got into a fistfight with one of the other players and landed a punch on your head coach, Hugh McCullum, all while getting his daughter pregnant? You torched your locker room credibility, and the coach wants you off the team like yesterday.”
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw clicks. “It wasn’t supposed to get this out of hand.”
“Too late for that,” he cuts in. “The front office is already looking at exit strategies. Best case, we work a trade. Worst case, they void your contract entirely. And I don’t need to tell you how ugly that gets.”
I lean forward and meet him head-on. “I’m not letting them just kick me out like some scrub. I’ve got value.”
“Yeah? To whom?” He leans in, his eyes sharp. “Every team’s going to see a walking PR nightmare. You think GMs want to risk their locker room stability for you? You have talent, sure, but they want talent with control.”
I sit back, my jaw flexing, and my pulse hammering. Think. Think. “So, what the hell do I do?”
“Damage control. First, you keep your mouth shut. No interviews, no cryptic social media posts. If they want to trade you, we position this as a fresh start, not a scandal.”
“And if they cut me loose?”
“Then we fight it. Legal terms, contract disputes, you don’t walk away empty-handed. But if you make this worse? You’ll be lucky if the KHL picks you up.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “And what about-”
Grant leans forward, his voice lower now, more serious. “The kid? That’s your responsibility now. Not mine, not the team’s. But if you don’t handle this like a pro, every headline will make sure you never shake this off.”
“For fuck’s sake, Grant... we've got to fix this.”
“We control the narrative. And we move fast. You ready?”
“Damn. I’ll do whatever I have to.”
Grant exhales, dragging his fingers to massage his temples. “Now to Hugh McCullum’s daughter, Cassy, who also happens to be the Aces’ Media and Communications Manager.”
That lands like a punch I don’t dodge.
Grant squints up at me. “Listen, I don’t know if there’s any saving this, but if you want a miracle?
You’d have to sit down with the coach and somehow convince him not to burn you to the ground.
I don't know, maybe if you approach this right, acknowledge you screwed up, make it clear you're willing to be professional, you might get him to ease off pushing you out immediately.”
I stare at the floor, then up at him. “And you really think that might work?”
“Yes. But you need to be prepared for the alternative. If this goes public, and given who she is, it very well could, your reputation takes another hit. The media department isn’t just an office job; they control narratives.”
I lean back, arms tensing. “You seriously think she would leak it?”
“No. Probably not intentionally, but if she talks to the wrong person, or if the wrong text lands in the wrong inbox, this is hitting every hockey news site in the country.”
“You know, Grant, I had already decided I was going to try and sort things out with her. Do something big. But not for my career.” I pause, look him dead in the eye. “I fucking want to be with the goddamn woman.”
Grant watches me, then nods once. “Well, whatever you do...You better hope it works. If not, we’re moving to Plan B, finding you a landing spot before you’re thrown out with nothing.”
My eyes drift to the edge of his desk, catching on something bright. A flyer, half buried under paperwork. Bold colors. A small plane in the middle of a perfect blue sky, trailing a massive banner behind it in screaming red letters.
Lightbulb.
I reach for it. “Mind if I have that?”