Page 117 of Player Misconduct
Finally, the other other players from the Sentinels find us, as if he ditched them on purpose. “There you are, man. We’ve been looking for you.” one of them says to Tarron.
I’m relieved to see them. If they get him out of here quickly then hopefully this whole situation blows over and no one's the wiser.
“Go home Tarron. Sober up and call your sponsor. This isn’t you.”
“Exactly,” he says, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around my arm. “You’re the only one who knows who I am. Just come home with me so we can talk this out.”
I can smell the beer on his breath. I’m not sure how many he drank but it was more than the two I saw in his hand based on the smell and the glassiness of his eyes.
“Hey… Tarron…” the other Sentinel player says, taking a step forward, his eyes on Tarron’s grip on me. “Let her go man. You can talk to her tomorrow after you sleep this off.”
Tarron’s grip tightens painfully.
“Ouch… Tarron, let go… you’re hurting me.”
Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the tension.
"Let her go Tarron."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Aleksi
The locker room is buzzing with excitement, players high-fiving, shower water hitting tile, music and laughter filling every corner. But as I look around, looking for the only person I want to see, I notice she isn’t here. Theo is the only one making rounds.
I head for Theo. “Have you seen Kendall?”
There’s a quick flash in his eyes and then it’s gone. “She went to find Penelope. That’s all I know.” But it seems like he might know more.
I drop my helmet at my stall before I head for the locker exit and as soon as I push through the doors, I hear her voice.
Not the calm cadence she uses on the bench. A thinner thread, frayed.“Ouch… Tarron, let go… you’re hurting me.”
I don’t think, I just move.
I turn the corner and there he is: Tarron McCoy. His fingers locked around Kendall’s arm. Not careful. Not kind. Possessive. Her other hand is gripping his wrist as if to signal that his hand is getting too tight on her.
"Let her go Tarron."
My voice is low and flat. It doesn’t need volume; it carries on its own kind of threat.
Tarron turns. Red-rimmed eyes and glassy from too many beers. I’ve been around enough drunk fans to notice it immediately. The stale, hoppy smell of beer and sweat permeates from him. He’s in a Sentinels polo like he belongs, VIP credential swinging as if the laminate is a shield.
“Mind your business, rookie,” he slurs, and doesn’t let go.
“She is my business,” I say. I take another step, and the space shrinks.
I’m still in full gear, skates too, giving me additional height even though barefoot, I still have at least four inches on him.
A camera flash pops. Then another. I check my peripheral without drawing attention to make it worse. Reporters linger after wins like a bunch of hungry seagulls. Of course they do, and this is exactly the kind of click-bait catnip they want.
“Kendall,” I say, eyes on Tarron. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says, not sounding fine at all. She pulls, and he tightens his grip, and pulls her toward him a hair, making her stumble two steps towards me.
“Tarron, knock this shit off,” one of the players says.
“Listen to your body,” I warn.
