34. Sydney

CHAPTER 34

SYDNEY

I burst through a set of ornate double doors into utter pandemonium. The swanky restaurant looks like it's been hit by a tornado of panicked hockey players and staff. Vincent, our GM, is pacing the room like a caged tiger, barking orders left and right.

"I don't care what it takes, just find him, and now! And where the hell is Sydney?" he shouts into his phone.

"Right here," I call out, raising my hand meekly. Vincent whips around, his eyes flashing. I gulp.

Scanning the room, I spot the team owners huddled in the corner. The Prescott family, billionaires who made their fortune in corn futures before buying the struggling hockey franchise as a vanity project.

Mr. and Mrs. Prescott are frantically tapping on their phones, no doubt doing damage control.

But it's their daughter who catches my eye. Tall and willowy with striking emerald eyes, she stands apart from the chaos, calmly observing the madness. Our gazes meet and there's an odd sense of kinship. Another woman thrown into this testosterone-fueled world, a fellow outsider.

"Some party, huh?" I joke weakly.

She gives me an appraising look. "You must be Sydney, the team's addiction counselor. I've heard about you. I'm Amelia Prescott."

"Nice to meet you, Amelia. Sorry it's under such crazy circumstances." My heart sinks even lower as my gaze moves back to Vincent, still furiously stalking around the restaurant shouting into his phone. This is on me .

Amelia touches my arm gently. "Hey, don't be hard on yourself. This isn't your fault. Addiction is a beast. All we can do is be there to support Mikey when he's ready."

Her compassion—both for me and for Mikey—takes me by surprise. Before I can respond, Vincent strides over, clapping a meaty hand on my shoulder.

"Syd! Stop disappearing. Oh—" his voice softens. "I see you've met our future team owner," he booms with false joviality. "Amelia here is shadowing her parents to learn the ropes."

I plaster on a bright smile, suppressing my rising shame. Just smile and spin, that's my job now. Never mind that I'm failing miserably at actually helping these players...

Vincent steers me away, updating me on what's happened. Mikey showed up high as a kite and made a massive scene, screaming at the serving staff and getting belligerent with the restaurant's manager when he tried to intervene.

It was ugly…and extremely public. Mikey's already left the premises, so there's not much I can do until he's located.

"No luck yet," Vincent grunts. "We've tried his home, his girlfriend's place, his favorite restaurants. Any ideas?"

I chew my lip, racking my brain. Where would a troubled young athlete go to escape? To get away from the pressure, the scrutiny, the constant fear of screwing up?

Suddenly it hits me. "The rink," I blurt out. "He'd go to the one place that feels like home. Where he feels safe and in control."

Vincent's eyes widen. He whips out his phone and starts barking orders. Within minutes, we're racing across town in his sleek Audi, tires squealing as we take corners at breakneck speed.

As we pull up to the darkened practice arena, my heart is pounding.

Please let him be here. Please let him be okay.

Vincent uses his master key to let us in the back entrance. The cavernous space is eerie, all shadows and silence. Our footsteps echo as we make our way down to the ice.

And there, sitting hunched in the center of the ice, is Mikey. My heart clenches at the sight of him. Slowly, I make my way across the ice to join him, my shoes slipping on the slick surface.

Mikey's bloodshot eyes peer out at me. "Whadda you want?" he slurs.

"We're here to help, Mikey." I keep my voice gentle but firm. "You need to get treatment. We'll be with you every step of the way."

He stands, then nearly slips.

Vincent has walked up behind me and steps forward to catch his elbow. "C'mon, son. Let us help you."

Mikey looks between us, his face sad and exhausted, and suddenly his shoulders sag, the fight gone out of him. He lets himself be led off the ice.

An hour later, Mikey's quietly checked into rehab and I'm in a conference room, staring down a social media nightmare. Coach Daniels paces while Chloe scrolls through her phone with a deepening frown.

"TMZ's already picked it up," she reports. "Photos of Mikey leaving the restaurant drunk off his ass with a black eye and a bloody nose. Speculation about him groping the team owner's daughter."

Coach slams a fist on the table. "Goddamnit!"

I massage my temples, a headache building. It was my job to prevent this exact scenario. Some addiction specialist I'm turning out to be.

Paul's mocking voice slithers through my mind. "You're out of your depth, Syd. You can't handle this. You're going to fail, just like always."

I shake my head, trying to dislodge his poisonous words. But they cling like cobwebs, sticky and cloying.

Vincent catches my eye from across the table, his gaze concerned.

I look away, shame burning my cheeks. I've let him down. Let them all down.

"We need to release a statement," Chloe is saying. "Something to explain Mikey's absence, spin this in a sympathetic light..."

Their voices fade to a distant buzz as Paul's taunts grow louder, drowning out all else. "You're weak, Syd. You'll never be enough... Where were you when this was going down? Fucking some hockey players like a slut?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the heels of my hands against them, willing Paul's voice to disappear.

A gentle touch on my shoulder startles me and my eyes fly open. Coach Daniels is crouched beside my chair, his eyes soft with concern.

"Hey," he says quietly. "You okay?"

I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. "I'm fine," I rasp unconvincingly.

Coach studies me for a long moment, his gaze knowing. "You're not fine, Syd. And that's okay. This was an intense night."

He pats me on the shoulder and stands back up. "How about you take yourself home, get some rest?"

I nod numbly, grateful for the out. I need to escape this room, these accusing stares, my own self-loathing thoughts. Gathering my things with shaking hands, I slip out, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

The cold night air slaps me in the face as I exit the arena, bracing and sobering. I gulp it in, trying to clear my head. Fishing out my phone, I debate calling DJ or Tyler, updating them on where I am, everything that's happened.

But I keep hearing the echo of that word in my head, in Paul's voice. Mikey's.

Slut.

My fingers open up the rideshare app and call a car almost before I know what I'm doing.

I just need to go home.

I stumble into my dark apartment, kicking off my heels and shucking my purse onto the entry table. Exhaustion weighs on me like a fifty-pound barbell as I drag myself to the couch and collapse onto the soft cushions.

What a clusterfuck of a day.

My stomach churns with anxiety and bitter regret. I know what I need to do, but god, it's gonna hurt like a bitch. With shaking hands, I pull out my phone. DJ and Tyler's faces smile up at me from the lock screen—a silly selfie we took not long ago, laughing and carefree.

Shit, I can't back out now.

Taking a deep breath, I tap on DJ's contact and hold the phone to my ear. Voicemail.

I swallow hard.

"Hey DJ...I'm sorry to leave this as a message but...I think I need to take a break from you and Ty. With everything going on with the team, I just...I need to focus 100% on work right now."

Tears prick at my eyes but I blink them back.

"You and Ty both mean so much to me, you know that. But I can't give my all if I'm...distracted. You deserve better. I'm so sorry."

The goodbye tastes bitter on my tongue as I end the call. One down, one to go . This time, the tears fall freely as I listen to Tyler's outgoing message.

"Ty...god, I don't even know what to say." A humorless laugh escapes me. "You and DJ...you're everything I never knew I needed. But the team has to come first right now. I fucked up by not being there today."

I angrily swipe at my damp cheeks.

"Just...take care of each other, okay? I'll miss you both so damn much."

I end the call and hurl my phone across the room. It bounces harmlessly on the rug. Pulling my knees to my chest, I bury my face and let the sobs come, my shoulders shaking with the intensity of my grief.

It's the right thing to do. It has to be.

Then why does it feel like my heart is being ripped out of my chest? I cry until my throat is raw and my eyes burn. Emotionally spent, I uncurl my aching body and stumble to the bedroom, not even bothering to undress before collapsing onto the bed.

Tomorrow I'll focus on fixing this mess with the team.

Tonight...tonight I'll let myself mourn the loss of the two best things that ever happened to me .