14. Graham #3
A photographer shouted something from below the stage. Nicolle looked toward the press line, as if someone there might rescue the script she had expected. No one moved toward them. The interviewer stayed near the podium, empty-handed and useless, while the broadcast camera continued recording.
Nicolle’s mouth tightened. “You’re destroying years of work over a sweater.”
“It isn’t yours.”
“Neither is this brand anymore if you keep going.”
The threat landed without force. Hours ago, contracts had still been the language everyone around him expected him to understand. Now the only thing Graham wanted from Nicolle hung across her shoulders.
He raised his open hand a little higher.
“You didn’t bleed for it,” he said. “You don’t get to wear it.”
Nicolle pulled one side free, then the other. The sweater caught for a moment against the sleeve of her dress before sliding loose. Graham recognized the faded cuff as it dropped into her hands, the yarn flattened from years of use.
She shoved it at him.
The bundle hit his chest.
Graham jerked his shoulder to trap the sweater against his forearm, the sudden motion sending a sharp pain across his collarbone. The microphone remained in his other hand. He shifted the wool, keeping it clear of the injury.
The familiar fabric brushed his wrist.
Months earlier, he had handed it away with a laugh because a camera wanted a better picture. Riley had spent years repairing the same sweater because buying a new one had once been a luxury. Graham had known every piece of that history and still treated it as expendable.
I gave this away.
There was no speech that could change that fact. No public confession could reach backward and pull Riley away from the plexiglass before she watched him make the choice.
But the sweater would never become somebody else’s prop again.
Nicolle stared at the wool across his arm. “You’re a psychopath!”
Nicolle’s last insult was swallowed by the noise from the press line. Graham shifted the sweater higher along his forearm and reached inside his jacket. The folded contract caught against the lining as he pulled it free and raised the unsigned stack toward the nearest camera.
The Team GM stepped out from the wing. “Put that away, Graham.”
“No.” Graham held the pages where the camera could catch the franchise logo and empty signature lines. “They should see it.”
He tucked the microphone beneath the arm carrying the sweater, keeping the handle away from the bandage beneath his collar. Wool pressed against his wrist while he took the contract in both hands.
Paper resisted.
Then it tore.
The ripping sound carried through the microphone trapped against his side, amplified across the plaza before the crowd swallowed it. Graham tore through the remaining joined pages and opened his hands. Pieces scattered over the stage, landing among the branded confetti.
The extension had never carried his signature.
It never would.
That part of my life ends here.
Graham pulled the microphone free again.
“I’m cashing out,” he said. “My relationship with this brand and this franchise ends today.”
The Team GM strode toward him. “Do you understand what you’re doing?”
Graham looked at the torn contract scattered across the floor, then at Riley’s sweater resting over his arm.
“For the first time in years.”
He dropped the microphone onto the stage, the impact booming across the plaza, and turned toward the rear stairs.
The crowd erupted behind him. Reporters shouted questions over one another while production staff rushed from the wings toward the abandoned broadcast setup. Graham kept walking. He kept the sweater tucked against his side as he descended the stairs, leaving the torn agreement under the lights.
“Delaney!”
The GM followed him down.
Graham reached the bottom stair without turning.
“You just blew your life apart!” the GM shouted. “The board is stripping the C tonight, and we’ll bury you in court over this.”
That threat would once have stopped him before the first step.
Captaincy. Endorsements. Damages. Lawyers.
He had spent years treating every one of those words like a command.
Now Riley’s sweater rested across his arm, and the contract lay in pieces behind him.
“Have Legal send the bill to my lawyer.”
“Graham, you walk out of here, and there is no fixing this!”
Graham continued toward the service lane.
Beyond the stage enclosure, cooler city air pushed across his face. Security staff had opened a narrow path between the barricades, and a black SUV waited at the curb with its rear door open. Miller stood beside it, waving Graham forward while two guards held the passage clear.
Behind them, the gala had turned on itself. Reporters crowded the VIP entrance instead of the service lane, shouting for executives and League representatives to explain the broadcast.
Miller looked at the sweater over Graham’s arm, then at the empty breast pocket of Graham’s jacket. He gave no speech about the captaincy or the money.
“Move,” he said, keeping one hand on the open car door. “The press is tearing through the VIP tent trying to get to the executives.”
Graham reached the curb and glanced once toward the stage lights behind him.
Nothing there belonged to him anymore.
Miller stepped aside.
“Your route is clear. Get in.”