Page 87 of Scoring Zone
The team is fighting for me the only way they can, with positive statements in the press. My lawyer is doing everything she can to protect me. I have to steel my backbone and stand up for myself.
I muster a smile and answer. “Hey.”
Chapter 37
Austin
I’m nothing but a lying fucking liar. I’ve spent my entire life trying to live up to other people’s expectations of me, and now all I can do is lie.
Brant promised me he’d ask around and we’d find the women Dumas was harassing the night I hit him. He asked me to be patient, but my boyfriend has fled the country and I’m out of fucks to give. I’ll hire a private investigator if I have to.
My game suffers and speeds by me as if I’m playing underwater. The team has rallied around me to pick up the slack, but it’s not enough. Coach assumes I’m in a slump and gives me more ice time than I deserve.
Lying has become a sickness I can’t stop. Doing the right thing will cause damage and harm, but doing the wrong thing is killing my soul. The team is better when I’m not on the ice, and for the first time in my career, I fake an injury to remove myself from the game.
It’s surprisingly easy, given that there are already rumors. I’ve seen how Gray evaluates players’ bodies and know what to say. When a defender slashes my ankle, I turn it inward and go down. I tell the assistant trainer I’m fine but yelp when he takes my skate off. I sigh with relief when Coach tells me I’m not going in again.
My teammates vow to win for me, and they come from behind to avenge me. Drake and Lucky combine to score, and King finds the back of the net. Benz makes incredible saves.
We win. And there’s no joy.
I’m not the man I thought I was.
Ari Dimon intercepts me on the way to the locker room. “Can I have a word with you?” He asks politely but doesn’t wait for an answer as he ushers me into the nearest office. “How serious is your ankle injury?”
“I haven’t had a full eval, but from experience it’s not serious.” I lean against the wall to stand on my “good” foot.
“Glad to hear it.” Mr. Dimon clears his throat. “Are you doing okay?” The weight of his stare and tone nearly breaks me.
I open my mouth to tell him I’m fine, but I shake my head instead. “Everything is wrong, and it has gone on for too long. I’m done.” I say defiantly.
“The lawyers are pressing to close the case. How is Mr. Ward holding up?”
I shrug. I’m saved from answering when Wes, his assistant, knocks on the door.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you’d want to hear this right away. Rhys Brant is at the police station, and the press is there.”
Mr. Dimon’s body convulses before he closes his eyes and locks his emotions down. “What does that have to do with me?” he snaps.
“He went to make a statement about the night Ward hit Dumas, and he took two women with him.” I’m out the door, running to my phone before Wes finishes his statement.
There are missed calls and messages from Brant. I listen to his last one. “Hey, I hate to do this without you, but tomorrow I’ve got a road trip, and one of our friends is a server and works later. I’m taking them to the police station, and we’ll all make statements. I’m an eyewitness so it won’t be weird. I hope. Anyway, call me. Later.”
There’s a hush in the room, and I hear Rhys’s voice on someone else’s phone. I’m surrounded by media personnel and bombarded with questions about the video. I’m thankful I already listened to his message, but I can honestly say I never saw Rhys’s statement. There’s talk about a second video from that night from a different vantage point and I ask to watch it. Without a doubt, it looks like self-defense, and, more importantly, in the audio, Dumas is the aggressor.
It’s the only positive news I’ve had in weeks. A reputable reporter uses her phone to cue up the video of Rhys standing outside the police station.
“When I heard the charges were still pending despite the video evidence, I felt it was my civic duty as a witness to come forward. The police hadn’t interviewed me yet in their investigation, and my friends”—he gestures to two beautiful women beside him—“provided their account with Mr. Dumas that night.”
My phone goes off with Gray’s ringtone, and I rush to answer it, unofficially dismissing the reporter.
“What did the trainer say about your ankle?” he asks before I can say “hello.”
“Haven’t seen him yet. Do you know what’s going on?” I’m purposely vague.
“Austin, go see the trainer!” he huffs, unintentionally answering my question.
“Listen, search Rhys Brant and call me back.” I hang up and dial Rhys.
