The Vengeful Return

Jaxson

The professional training facility on the edge of town smelled of ozone, rubber mats, and iron.

It was nearly nine o'clock at night, and I was the last one left on the weight floor, my forearms resting on the top of a high spotting rack as I tried to force my lungs to expand.

Every muscle in my body ached from the brutal, six-hour drafting routine Vance had laid out for me, but the physical exhaustion wasn't enough.

The silence of the empty gym just let the noise in my head get louder.

Business as usual.

That was the lie I told the scouts.

That was the phrase I used whenever the Detroit front office called to check on my off-season progression.

I was focusing on the draft.

I was running the miles.

I was completely blocking out the girl in the burgundy dress.

But every time I turned a corner on the quad, every time I sat in an empty diner booth, I found myself looking for the faint scent of vanilla and warm rain.

I hated her for it.

I hated her for the trap she had left behind in my head, a permanent vulnerability that I couldn't skate away from.

"Still trying to break the machinery, Reed?"

The voice came from the dark shadow of the equipment mezzanine a raspy, thin cadence that immediately made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I straightened up slowly, my hands curling into tight fists at my sides as a figure stepped into the harsh fluorescent glare of the gym floor.

Derek Vance.

He didn't look like an athletic department golden boy anymore.

He had been thoroughly expelled from the university program after the initial investigation into his administrative violations, his scholarships stripped, his future declarations voided.

He looked gaunt, wearing an oversized, wrinkled track jacket, his eyes bloodshot and wide with a frantic, volatile bitterness that smelled faintly of cheap liquor.

"You shouldn't be on this property, Vance," I said, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble that echoed off the metal weight plates.

“The athletic board put a trespass restriction on your file."

"The athletic board doesn't own the town, Reed,"

Derek sneered, taking a slow, uneven step toward the weight rack, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“And they don't own the donors I’ve been talking to. You think you’re so incredibly safe now, don't you? You won the gold trophy, the HypeTV cameras wrapped up their little circus, and you’re just waiting to fly to Montreal to collect your millions."

"Get out of my way," I said, stepping past him to grab my duffel bag from the bench.

"I know about the private trust, Jaxson," Derek hit back, his words sharp, laced with a venom that made me freeze in my tracks.

He turned, a nasty, broken laugh tearing out of his throat.

“I know exactly how your little sister's clinic stays funded. And I know your mother signed a secondary financial disclosure waiver with the university administration before the season even started. A waiver that says any academic or behavioral fraud prior to graduation voids the entire corporate package."

I slowly turned around, my massive frame towering over him, the fury in my veins turning into absolute zero.

“If you touch my family, Vance, I will bury you so deep the scouts won't even find your name on a roster."

"I don't need to touch them," Derek whispered, leaning in, his face twisted in a mask of pure, vengeful malice.

“I already partnered with a local booster who wants the athletic director's head on a spike. We have the forged paperwork, Reed. Three semesters of history essays and political science exams, all signed with your digital student ID, routed through an off-campus cheating syndicate. By the time the administration faculty opens the files at the all-school assembly on Friday, your championship title will be voided, your draft declaration will be flagged for fraud, and your little sister's clinic will be completely broke. Enjoy the ice while it lasts, Captain."

He turned on his heel and walked out into the dark parking lot, his mocking laughter echoing through the empty gym, leaving me standing alone in the cold shadows of a trap that was about to close around my throat.