Chapter 32 Aftershocks Beau
Aftershocks
Beau
Instead of focusing on the athletic director pacing a trench around the cramped meeting room, I keep glancing at the door.
Most of my team is here. Beth’s head swivels away when she catches me looking at her.
Not a good sign. A shadow falls in the doorway and hope rises again, only to crash down when Maisie walks in, JJ by her side.
I’m pretty sure she catches the question in my eyes, but she turns away too.
The worst part isn’t that Luna’s mad. The worst part is I don’t know if she’s done with me.
I need to talk to her, but I got too far up in my head and took too long to reach out.
Now she’s not answering my texts or calls, and I don’t blame her.
This is my chance. She’s got to show up today.
I’ll get a chance to explain everything and beg for forgiveness.
The team meeting room smells like dry-erase markers and someone’s too potent cologne.
We’re packed tighter than usual. Usually, this space is reserved for smaller meetings, not all hands on deck situations.
Maisie ducks up front to talk to the AD and Sin in a hushed tone before taking a seat across from me, and my heart sinks.
Luna’s seat. Her alternate is filling in for her tonight.
JJ’s bouncing his leg beside me like we’re in line for a rollercoaster. Dev hasn’t said a word since we walked in.
The AD clears her throat and switches the slide on the screen behind her. The university logo disappears. A new one pops up. It’s clean, minimalistic, luxury-coded. The donor’s foundation.
Just seeing it twists something low in my stomach.
“We’ve received word that the Bridgefern Foundation has canceled its upcoming visit to Lakeview.” Her tone is way too even to be casual, and even though she’s not looking at me, I can feel the judgment slashing into my chest. “The donor is reevaluating potential alignments.”
Reevaluating alignments. A bunch of PR bullshit talk that tells me the donor is walking away from us.
“Unofficially, they’ve been touring facilities at Western Shore.” She twists the knife.
A ripple goes through the room. Someone mutters a low shit from the back.
JJ leans toward me. “Isn’t that where their women’s team has that weird dog mascot?”
I don’t answer. A rush of heat spreads through me, but my fingers are numb. I’m weak, my head spinning.
“The feedback we’ve received,” she continues, gaze not quite meeting mine, “is that the donor felt misled about the… presentation of certain partnerships involved in the campaign.”
My face goes hot.
No one says my name because they don’t have to.
This whole thing was built around Luna and me.
Our rapport. Our collaboration. Our perfectly polished videos, pictures, and livestreams. And now, some jerk with video editing software and too much time on his hands has leaked a private video that’s blown up into a PR disaster.
That’s how easy it is for social media to turn on you in this day and age.
The AD flips the screen again. The logo vanishes.
“We’re doing what we can to maintain the relationship,” she says, which means it’s slipping through our fingers.
“But I expect all of you on both teams to be mindful of what you post and how it might be interpreted. Eyes are on us now. Don’t give them a reason to look twice. ”
The department is going to lose the influx of funds. And the worst part is, the women’s team will feel it worse than the men’s.
Meeting adjourned.
Outside, JJ nudges my shoulder. “Man, you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“Because, like, that looked rough. Even for you.”
“Drop it.”
He lifts his hands in mock surrender and wanders off, probably to raid the vending machine.
Dev hangs back. Doesn’t say anything. Just gives me a look shadowed by his hoodie. It’s probably concern, but I don’t engage with him, just walk out the door. I can’t deal with this right now.
By the time I get home, my shoulders are so tight it’s like they’re trying to climb into my ears.
I don’t even take off my coat. Just kick my shoes halfway into the front closet and head for my room. All I want to do is put on my headphones, crank up some music and try to get lost in the noise. Forget about the meeting, and her, and watching my future slip away.
But before I reach the stairs, my phone rings.
Of course it does. And of course it’s him.
I stare at the screen. Just the name Dad. No emojis. No nicknames. Just sharp letters on a dark screen.
I answer on the third ring. Not because I want to.
But because it’s easier than dealing with the aftermath if I don’t.
I never thought I was the kind of person to take the easy route.
After all, I worked my ass off to get where I am in the hockey world.
But in retrospect, he’s the one person I never stand up to.
I just smooth things over and go along with his tyranny.
His voice is clipped, precise, like it always is when he’s irritated. “I heard Bridgefern is dropping Lakeview in favor of Western Shore.”
No hello. No how are you? That’s never been his style. Why waste time on pleasantries? Not with your children. Potential business partners, maybe.
I press my knuckles into the countertop. “Where did you hear that?” How does he even know about the sponsorship deal when I just found out myself? Probably has some connection to the donor, or the foundation. The wealthy often stick to their own.
He blows past my question. “These optics are terrible, son. I thought you knew better than to get involved in this sort of unprofessional publicity. Especially after what your sister put me through last year.”
“Right.” Cece getting exposed on the internet without her consent was all about him, after all.
He pauses, which is worse than if he just started yelling. “I warned you, Beau. About distractions.”
“I’m aware.”
“You thought you were being clever volunteering with her at that unsuitable place,” he says, and I flinch. “But nothing good ever comes when you lower yourself to actually date someone so beneath you.”
My mouth dries up. “She’s not…”
“Don’t insult both of us by pretending this was ever going to amount to anything. She was a distraction. Your little rebellion before you graduate college.”
I don’t respond. Not because he’s right. Because if I say she it’s real, if I defend her, he’ll twist it. He’ll make it about pride or weakness or some character flaw I inherited from my mother’s side of the family.
There’s a pause, like he’s waiting for me to argue. I don’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I pace around the main floor, lapping the TV room, the hall, and the dining room on repeat. I end up in the kitchen, staring at the smooth wood grain of the cupboards.
Finally, he sighs. It’s performative and drawn out. “We have meetings lined up next week with two new clients. You’ll need to make yourself available.”
I grip the edge of the counter harder. “I’ve still got playoffs. And finals.” I don’t mention the charity scrimmage. He won’t give a shit about that.
“This is more important.”
No hesitation. No acknowledgment that I’m still a college athlete.
That I haven’t graduated yet, and I’m not on his payroll.
Not officially, anyway. But maybe I am. Maybe it started the second I let him control the narrative.
First with Cece’s tuition, then with my career.
Or maybe I’ve been letting him do it my entire life.
“Understood,” I mutter.
“Good. And Beau?”
“What.”
“Clean this up. Quietly.”
The call ends.
I stand there for a long time afterward. Locked in place, with the faint echo of his voice still bouncing around my skull.
She’s beneath me? What kind of bullshit is that?
She’s a woman, not an object. Not to mention a far better person than my father and most of his cronies.
Because she cares. About other people, animals, her family.
The time and effort she spends helping and uplifting others and not asking for anything in return?
He couldn’t even fathom putting forth a fraction of that effort. Unless it was for personal gain.
But he’ll never understand that sentiment. His number one priority is himself, his reputation, and his family legacy. Money and power. Luna is quite possibly the best person who ever walked into my life, and I’ve been lucky to have had this time with her.
I don’t realize how long I’ve been sitting on the kitchen floor until the tile numbs through my pants.
My back’s pressed against the lower cabinets, legs stretched out in front of me, phone face-down beside me like it betrayed me, and I can’t look at it again. The only light in the room is from the microwave clock. 4:12.
I haven’t even taken off my coat.
There’s a clink of keys in the door. I don’t move.
Cece steps inside, humming under her breath. She pauses when she sees me, still mid-hum, still holding a drink tray with two green coffee cups in it.
“Okay…” she says slowly, shutting the door behind her. “Sitting on the kitchen floor in the dark. That’s new.”
“Didn’t feel like standing.”
She sets the tray down, kicks off her boots, and joins me without a word. Just lowers herself to the tile like she’s done this a thousand times, which she probably has, in one form or another. We’ve shared more than enough drama together growing up.
“Is this a don’t-talk-to-me sit or a please-say-something-before-I-combust sit?”
I rub my eyes. “Somewhere in between.”
Cece pulls one of the coffees from the tray and hands it to me. She knows how I like it. Extra bold and black.
She sips hers first. Doesn’t push me into talking. She’s letting me marinate in my own head. Even the small sip I take scalds my tongue, but it feels right. Like I deserve the punishment.
“I talked to Dad,” I say eventually.
Cece’s face doesn’t change, but her shoulders tense.