Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (20)
NINE
ELIAS
REGRET IS A heavy feeling. It snatched away the sleep I would’ve gotten on our flight back home and left me exhausted by the time Aiden and I got to our apartment last night. We ordered takeout because even cooking can’t help me out of this funk. I spent the night tossing and turning, staring at the red glare for the time on my alarm clock. Each minute dragged by, and I found myself dwelling on the reason for my haunting regret.
It’s the look on Sage’s face after she assumed I thought she wasn’t good enough for me. If my mouth had been on my side, I would have been able to tell her that our relationship wouldn’t be believable because I’ve never been in one. I’ve only ever had casual hookups, and the last one was over four years ago.
The icing on the cake is that even a week after our date, the rumors are still alive. They’ve only gotten worse, and I’ve had to stop myself from checking how many people are leaving comments on Sage’s posts, ripping into her life and asking about my addition to it, because I know I’ll do something stupid like reply with frustration. But Mason would kill me if I interacted with the noise; it’s like fighting fire with fire.
When my alarm clock blares, I’m up and ready to go in minutes. The morning is quiet as Aiden and I move on autopilot through the kitchen. My best friend is well rested, and he must see my dark under-eye circles, because he offers to drive. But I don’t let him. So Aiden takes our gear bags and loads them in the trunk of my Bronco. I can’t bring myself to make any conversation on our way to the arena. It’s evident he’s noticed the tension thrumming off me earlier in the kitchen, but he doesn’t ask. The thing about our friendship is that we don’t push each other to talk. We open up when we’re ready. That’s how it’s always been.
I’ve tried calling Sage to apologize, but the calls go straight to voicemail. I’ve made it clear that I regret saying anything that hurt her. But the message is received loud and clear, and the silence makes me feel even shittier. The last thing I want to be is the type of guy who fills up voicemails and harasses a woman for ignoring him. If she wanted to talk to me, she would.
“I think I fucked up,” I blurt.
Aiden turns to look at me, but I stay focused on the road. “Fucked up how?”
“I hurt someone.”
He exhales a long breath, still watching me. Probably suspicious about this topic of conversation.
“Did you apologize?”
“She didn’t want to hear it.” The she slips out before I can stop it, but I know he already knows this is about a girl. Sometimes, he’s a mind reader.
“Have you tried sending her flowers? I know the perfect ones.”
I glance over at him. “Flowers won’t fix this, and I don’t even know if fixing it is worth anything. I probably won’t see her again.”
“She’s the GM’s niece. You will see her again,” he says knowingly.
A mix of a scoff and laugh escapes me. Fucking mind reader, all right. Before I can decide if flowers or an apology blimp will do, the car’s console rings with a phone call.
“Why aren’t you here yet?” Mason’s high-pitched voice tells me he’s freaking out. “Marcus wants to talk to you, and the press conference is in thirty minutes. You better pray there’s no traffic on a Monday morning.”
The mention of our general manager has me on edge, and Aiden glances at me.
“He wants to talk to me?” I ask.
“Urgently.”
I swallow. “What’s the press conference for?”
Mason sighs loudly. “Refusing three postgame interviews means you’re making it up today. It’s mandatory.”
I hang up, cursing as I pull onto the busy highway. Mason is lucky we’re friends and he’s a killer agent, or I’d have fired him a long time ago for being a pain in my ass.
At the arena, we head up to where the press conferences are held and where Marcus Smith-Beaumont’s office is located.
Aiden heads to where his agent stands by the conference room door, next to a very on-edge Mason, who motions for me to head into our GM’s office and taps on his watch face.
I knock and the door creaks open. “You wanted to see me?”
The GM motions to the seat in front of him. There’s a stack of papers he’s flipping through on the wooden desk. His suit jacket hangs on a coatrack, and his sleeves are rolled up. Marcus clasps his hands in front of him.
“I’ve seen it before, you know. Plenty of times.” He’s simmering under his calm exterior. “Rich Ivy League kid who gets into the pros without lifting a finger.”
Despite having heard the description countless times, it bothers me when he says it with a tone bordering on disgust.
“I’m sure you’ve seen my stats. I’m not here on a favor, sir.”
He lets my words rest between us before leaning back in his chair.
“Your stats have nothing to do with whether you deserve to be here or not. I look at every player’s development throughout the season, and in just the short time you’ve been here, you haven’t shown any.”
When I open my mouth to say something, to either defend myself or promise that I’ve been trying my best to improve and get back to the Eli who could outscore every other NCAA player, he holds up a finger to stop me.