“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 façade 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?”
