Page 71 of Pucking One Night Stand
“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Save it for someone who gives a shit.” His voice is low, dangerous. “I know exactly what you’ve done to my daughter.”
I press both hands to my face, my forehead damp with sweat, pain throbbing under my nose and cheek. I look up at the ceiling like it might drop an answer on me.
McCullum just stands there, his jaw tight, breathing heavy, like he’s using every molecule of willpower not to put me through the floor.
“Look, Coach. Please, let me try and explain. It’s not what it seems—”
“Spare me the playground bullshit.” His voice hits like a sledgehammer. “What you’ve done to my daughter... she’s told me everything. The bet. The baby.”
“Wait.” I take a step forward. “Yes, I did make a bet with Bishy that night in Sin City, but I didn’t know it was your daughter. I thought it was just some random girl walking in. And now… now—”
“NOW WHAT?” His voice booms. “I’ve had enough of you. You’ve fucked up good this time. I should’ve let Bishy beat you to a pulp. Then finished you off myself.”
“But Coach—”
“But Coach, nothing.” His finger jabs toward my face. “The only reason I didn’t is because we’re a professional outfit here, and I take pride in my job.”
My chest tightens. Breathing hurts now. “How the fuck can I make this right? I’ll do anything.”
“I’ll tell you what you do.” He steps in close, fire in his eyes. “You don’t even look at my daughter. You don’t speak to her. She’s devastated. You hear me? Devastated. How do you think she must feel?”
“I can just imagine. I didn’t mean for any of this. But she’s having my baby now.”
“I don’t give a damn what she’s doing. And whatever it is…” he leans in, voice low and deadly. “It’s without you.”
“COACH!” My voice cracks out before I can pull it back. “I want to speak to her. I want to try and make this right.”
He growls, his hand clenched into a fist by his side. “I don’t give a flying fuck what you want.” His eyes narrow to slits. “Infact, I want you off the team. I’ve spoken to the board about a transfer. You’re on the bench until it’s finalized.”
Then, thud, he slams his finger into my chest. “Got it?”
He turns and storms out.
Silence caves in on me, and then the floor gives way. I hit it hard, not caring about the sting in my knees. I grab a towel and wipe at my face, blood, sweat, spit. Doesn’t matter. I slam my palm into the machine beside me.
“FUCK!”
The sound echoes across the empty gym.
I stay on the floor for a few minutes. Just breathing. Trying to keep it together.
Eventually, I get up. Everything hurts. Everything’s heavy.
I leave the gym, drag myself down the corridor, and push into the locker room like a ghost.
The shower hits my skin like a punishment. Hot, sharp needles peeling off the dried sweat and blood. My right eye pulsates, and my cheek’s tender.
My nose still throbs. The water runs red at first, then clear. I press both palms against the tile and let the spray hit the back of my neck. But it doesn’t wash anything away. I still feel like shit.
I towel off, throw on jeans and a black tee. Don’t bother with my hair. It’s a mess, whatever.
I pack my gear in silence, zip the bag up, and sling it over my shoulder.
The corridor is dimmer now. Arena staff are still around, some are sweeping, others are shutting down machines, and one guy is wiping the vending machine glass with a rag. They glance at me. Some nod. Most just pretend not to see me.
I walk past all of them. Slow steps. Heavy boots on tile.
