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PROLOGUE
SEBASTIAN
"Idon't care how you do it, but we need this. I need this."
Every damn thing I'd worked towards, gone with one stupid moment of weakness. And nothing I could do would change it.
"Serena will land on her feet, but you won't if this gets out. And I don't want it to, but I can't do this alone. And she needs to understand that this,” Justine cocked her to the side, “matters more than anything.”
Fucking hell.
“But, Sebastian, you didn’t sound so worried last night?”
I looked around the conference room, at the fucking door, wishing I could just walk right through and make this all go away.
But there was only one thing I could do. And if I had to be the bad guy, then so be it.
CHAPTER 1
SEBASTIAN
"Shittiest game you've ever played, Lockwood. And quite honestly, main office isn't exactly singing your praises."
Coach never blew smoke but fuck, he was right. And after nine years in the game, my arm wasn't like it used to be. Playing for Cleveland the past four seasons had been like being invited to dinner at your high school principal's house. At first, everyone likes you, until they realize you might be the troublemaker causing all the problems at school.
"The fact of the matter is, I can't have a quarterback leading my team who no one wants to fucking follow," he eyed me. "Or one who sleeps with his players' wives or girlfriends."
Fuck. "Not my fault she never told me her name," I held up my hands, "and Silva's wife showed up at my place in nothing more than a trench coat in the pouring rain." I called her a damn cab, but Silva showed up, after the bitch texted him, and laid me out flat before I could explain. Didn't help matters she'd slid into my DMs, and like an idiot, I'd playedalong not realizing who she was at first. When I tried to break it off, trench coat gate.
Of course the rest of my line didn't believe my side of the story, and if your line doesn't protect you, you can't score.
Which means you can't win. And that translates to this fucking meeting.
He sighed, and sat back into his chair. "Lockwood, I'm going to lay it out. I know your agent dropped you, HR doesn't want to touch this fucking thing with a damn ten foot pole, and if you were playing at the top of your game, I would do my damnedest to fight for you. But, you're not."
Allan Brandt informed me via text that he and his agency would no longer be representing me or my interests after this weekend.
Basically, you're fucked, Bas.
"The head office is activating the morals clause in your contract, effective immediately. And putting you on waivers."
My head shot up. Explained why Taft, the team legal head for Cleveland, entered the room just after Coach called me in a few minutes before. And why the tension in the air was so thick, you could cut it with a knife.
"No shit."
Taft cleared his throat, but Coach waved him off.
"Give us the room," he said with a shooing motion. Taft looked put off, but no one argued with Coach if they knew better. As Taft made his reluctant exit, Coach set his glasses on the desk and let out a breath as he leaned back in his chair. He shot a look at the door as it shut with a thud. “Lawyers don’t get the nuances of the game. Or how chemistry and luck play into things.”
Fuck me. I hung my head, not wanting to meet his eyes. My attitude was shit, and I knew it. He knew. Hell, the team knew it.
Especially Ty, the one guy on the team who made an attempt to stop my shitty attitude.
He eyed me a few times during practice, shaking his head, no doubt at my wasted talent.
No one wanted to protect a guy who acted like a world class dick.
And then something changed.
