7. Jase

"You really screwed yourself this time," Rex mutters, staring at his phone. "I've been on the phone with the PR department all morning, trying to come up with a way to spin this."

I lean against the wall and push back my hair. "What's the big goddamn deal? The guys wanted to beat the shit out of us with a fucking baseball bat. Was I just supposed to let them pound me and Lucas to death because I'm a ‘public figure'? Fuck that. They had it coming."

Rex drops his hand to his side and glares at me. "You could have walked away."

"Like a pussy? Are you fucking insane?" I lift an eyebrow. "There's no good way to spin that shit."

"You need to think about your career since you obviously haven't been shining like a star for most of the season." Rex's jaw tightens. "And if you don't want to end up working as a gym teacher next year because no team will have you, then you'd better be prepared to kiss some GM ass."

I scrub a hand down the front of my stubbled face.

"You couldn't have shaved?" Rex hisses, then turns back to his phone.

With the amount of sleep I got last night, it's a miracle I'm standing right now. If I tried to shave, I'd have probably cut my damn throat. My phone vibrates for the millionth time this morning. I don't bother to pull it out. It's either Bryce or Dad, and I can't talk to either of them right now.

I ball my fingers into a fist and give the wall behind me a little pound.

"You should've found a wall last night instead of beating the shit out of those guys."

A frustrated breath expels from my lungs at the sound of Rex's angry growl. I get it. I make him a lot of money. And there's a lot more money in endorsement deals that might get canceled because of what I did last night.

Plenty of cash at stake.

But fuck, I can still hear that bastard's voice in my head. I can feel the fiery hate he spewed. It still makes my skin crawl, and I wasn't gonna let him get away with it.

He was talking about Kyle, about Lucas.

And not that he or anyone else knows it, but he was talking about me, too.

So yeah, the fucker deserved getting his head smashed in. And speaking of smashing, my forearm is swollen and bruised from taking the impact of that bat. Adrenaline squelched the pain in the moment, but Jesus. It hit me like a mountain of bricks once I got home. The bruise is black, blue, purple, and angry as fuck, even after I iced it for hours.

Rex lets out a groan, sounds from his phone assaulting my ears. "Each one of these videos is worse than the other. You guys look like fucking animals."

"Look, I know you don't believe me, but I didn't just start shit with them because I had beer muscles, okay? I did it because of what they said. They came after me and Lucas while we were walking down the street, not the other way around. I don't give a damn what those videos show. It's not fucking accurate."

More video footage, twisted and manipulated to turn me and Lucas into some crazed, psycho ballers letting off steam after a shit show of a game.

Somehow, none of the videos have any audio of the gay hate comments. Just me and Lucas tearing them apart.

And since fucking social media is gospel, we have no clean path out of this mess, a mess that I caused because I was defending us all.

"It doesn't matter what really happened," Rex seethes. "What matters is perception, what the whole world is seeing right now. And people see you guys outside a bar and assume that after a night of partying you turn into vicious, entitled pricks who think they can get away with anything because they're famous. Do I really need to tell you what that says for this team and your standing on it? Not to mention the possible assault charges? Do you really want to go to jail, Jase?"

The squeak of shoes against the polished floor jars me and I straighten up, ignoring the roiling sensation in my gut. My eyes tangle with Lucas's green ones for a long second before he yanks his gaze away.

Rex and Greg shake hands and then huddle in a corner, I guess to come up with some game plan for how they're gonna handle the wrath of Reed Hoffman, the owner of the Crusaders.

I watch Lucas stiffen as he paces next to a window outside the office door. Biting the inside of my mouth, I have to force my eyes away because they're stuck on his ripped pecs in that tight t-shirt and those ripped arms that are barely contained by the short sleeves.

I must really be a head case if I'm more focused on eye fucking my teammate than enduring jail time.

My gut clenches. This doesn't just impact me. This affects Lucas, too. For all the world knows, the fight wasn't started by those douchebags. You can't tell in the video footage that he was just defending himself. And as a rookie, he's got way more pressure on him.

I told him to walk away and he didn't.

Sucking in a breath, I push the hair out of my eyes.

I wouldn't have walked, either.

Rex and Greg walk back toward us just as Hoffman stalks down the hallway from the opposite direction. He barely looks at Lucas; his icy glare is fixed right on me.

Just fucking beautiful.

One of Hoffman's sons is behind him. I don't like the guy enough to remember his name. He's an entitled prick who never played the game for even a day in his rich, pompous-ass life but thinks he knows everything about it and has no problem letting his lips flap to the press with his own commentary on our plays.

My eyes narrow as his thin lips lift into a smirk directed at me.

His one saving grace is that he's also gay. Maybe that'll help Lucas. Maybe Hoffman will go easier on him for that.

Lucas is loyal, that's for damn sure. And that's something you want in a teammate. I'll take the pipe if it comes down to it, as long as he doesn't suffer the consequences of my actions.

Hoffman pushes open his office door, his son on his heels. They round the desk, asserting their power over the rest of us. I push off the wall, my shoulders slumped as I follow Rex, Greg, and Lucas inside the room.

I've only been in here a couple of times before. It's huge and bright white with trophy display cases lining the walls. Signed balls, photos, all kinds of memorabilia. For a second, I take in the greatness that surrounds us all.

All I ever wanted was to emulate that same greatness and glory.

And now, because of a bunch of intolerant, hate-filled jackasses, my chance to grasp any of it is one toilet flush away.

"Close the door," Hoffman barks at me once I join the others in front of his desk. Rex gives me a look and I backtrack to shut it.

"I'm not going to mince words. You're both in jeopardy because of those videos. I don't think I need to tell you how much the team has been struggling without you attacking a group of men outside of a bar." Hoffman turns to me. "And you've been a thorn in my side with all the animosity between you and Gabe Kelly, besides the fact that you've been playing like crap."

"Sir, I know that the video footage looks bad, but it isn't accurate."

Hoffman whips his head toward Lucas. "Bentley, you're new, so I'll cut you some slack and not jump down your throat for interrupting me with your take on this." He steps around the desk and moves toward Lucas. "It doesn't matter what really happened. As far as the world is concerned, that video is what really happened. You and Maxwell jumped a few guys and beat them bloody. It doesn't matter if they antagonized you. All that matters is that everyone believes you started it."

"Don't you want to know what really happened?"

"You'd better watch yourself, Maxwell. Your record is garbage. You're hanging by a thread and I'm a machete."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rex put a hand to his forehead. He's probably cursing me right now, but I don't care. This needs to be heard. It may not do much for me, but maybe it'll get Lucas off with a warning.

"Shut up before you dig your grave," Rex mutters.

But I keep my eyes on Hoffman. His face is tinged with redness, anger seeping out of his pores. "I know I'm not in a great position, but you should still hear the truth. Those guys came after us, okay? They were talking shit about Lucas. Spewing gay hate. He didn't deserve it and I wanted to shut them up, so I punched one of the guys. Then he came back with a bunch of his bigoted pals."

I take a breath, my gaze skating over to Lucas. A flicker of hope in his eyes makes my breath hitch. I swallow hard and keep going because why the hell not? I'm on a roll.

"They brought the bat. They wanted a fight. And we could have beaten them harder, but we didn't. We walked away after shutting them up." I shift my arm and wince when a sharp pain explodes over the bone. "Lucas didn't start it, I did. If you're gonna punish anyone, it should be me, not him. He's the victim."

Hoffman raises an eyebrow. "So you're saying you'd accept whatever decision I make, as long as only you take the brunt of it?"

I nod. "Yes, sir. I made the call, not Lucas. He shouldn't go down for my mistake."

But fuck that. It wasn't a mistake. No matter what happens to me, I'm glad I did it. There are plenty of other assholes like them in the world and I'd do the same to all of them if they came at me like that again.

I keep all that to myself, though.

Hoffman strokes his chin and exchanges a look with his dipshit son. "Well, that's awfully big of you, Maxwell. But unfortunately, we're under heavy fire right now because of your little stunt."

He takes a step forward, his menacing dark eyes flipping between me and Lucas.

"So I've decided to let you both burn."