Walking Away from the Throne

“Turn the cameras back on.”

The media director freezes mid-whisper.

We’re supposed to be done. The press conference ended thirty seconds ago. The reporters are already half-standing, shuffling papers, checking their phones for quotes.

I’m supposed to walk off stage. Smile. Say we’ll “come back stronger next season.”

Instead, I lean back into the microphone.

“I’m not finished.”

The room stills.

Flashes start popping again.

At the far end of the stage, Victor Hale slowly straightens in his seat.

Owner of the Chicago Kings. Billionaire. Untouchable.

The man who traded Damon in the middle of the playoffs and called it strategy.

The man who thinks he owns everything.

Including me.

The coach mutters under his breath, “Don’t.”

Too late.

I look straight into the cameras.

“You all want to know why we lost the championship?” I ask.

A ripple of movement spreads through the reporters. They love this. Blood in the water.

Victor’s voice is calm beside me. “Adrian.”

A warning.

I don’t look at him.

“We didn’t lose because we weren’t good enough,” I continued. “We lost because this organization is rotting from the top.”

Gasps.

Actual gasps.

Coach goes pale.

Victor doesn’t move.

But I feel his attention shift fully onto me.

Cold. Precise.

“What are you implying?” one reporter calls out.

I stand.

The microphone screeches with the movement.

“I’m not implying anything,” I say. “I’m saying it clearly.”

My pulse pounds in my ears, but my voice doesn’t shake.

“You can’t build loyalty by treating players like assets on a spreadsheet. You can’t demand sacrifice when you’re the one making backdoor deals.”

Victor folds his hands in front of him.

Composed.

Deadly.

“You’re emotional,” he says smoothly into his mic. “We all are. Losing is difficult.”

That condescending tone almost cracks me.

“You traded our co-captain mid-playoffs,” I snapped. “Without warning. Without cause.”

“It was within my contractual rights.”

“It was sabotage.”

The word lands hard.

The room explodes into questions.

“Are you accusing ownership of tanking the finals?”

“Do you have proof?”

“Is this about Damon Vale?”

Damon.

Even hearing his name out loud feels like someone pressing on a bruise.

I see his face the night he left. The way he tried to look steady while everything burned behind his eyes.

You have a choice, he’d told me.

Lead.

I am.

Just not the way Victor expects.

“I have emails,” I say.

Victor’s head tilts slightly.

There it is.

The first crack.

“Careful,” he murmurs, low enough that only I hear.

I lean closer to my mic anyway.

“Emails about sponsorship pressure. About pre-negotiated trades before the playoffs even started. About bonuses tied to market expansion, not championships.”

The silence is suffocating now.

Reporters aren’t shouting.

They’re listening.

Victor finally stands.

He doesn’t raise his voice.

“Adrian,” he says, “you’re crossing a line.”

I met his gaze fully for the first time tonight.

“No,” I reply. “I’m drawing one.”

My goal isn’t subtle.

It isn’t safe.

I want Damon back.

I want this team free from a man who treats loyalty like weakness.

And if I burn my career doing it

So be it.

Victor steps closer to the podium. Security shifts at the edges of the room.

“You signed a contract,” he says quietly. “You represent this organization.”

“I represent the players who give everything for it.”

“You’re one of them.”

“Not anymore.”

The words shocked even me.

But once they’re out, they don’t feel wrong.

A reporter stands. “Are you demanding a trade?”

I shake my head.

“I’m demanding accountability.”

Victor’s mouth curves faintly. Not a smile. A calculation.

“You think public theatrics will force my hand?”

“I think sunlight does interesting things to secrets.”

A flicker of anger breaks through his mask.

“You have no idea what you’re playing with.”

“Try me.”

The room is chaotic now. Cameras flashing. Voices overlapping.

But all I see is him.

The man who dismantled us for profit.

The man who underestimated how far I’d go.

Victor leans in slightly, lowering his voice so only I can hear.

“You release anything confidential, and I’ll bury you in lawsuits so deep you’ll never touch the ice again.”

There it is.

The threat.

My heart hammers.

This is the edge.

Career versus conscience.

Power versus truth.

I think of Damon packing his locker in silence.

I think of the championship banner rising without him there to see it.

I think of the way this team fractured because one man needed control.

“You already took the throne,” I say softly. “What more do you want?”

His eyes darken.

“Everything.”

I straighten.

Then I do the one thing no one expects.

I pull a folded stack of papers from inside my jacket.

The printouts feel heavy in my hands.

Not just ink.

Leverage.

Gasps ripple through the room again.

“You don’t have clearance to possess those,” Victor says sharply.

“Probably not.”

I hold them up slightly so the cameras can catch a glimpse.

Numbers. Signatures. Dates.

“If anything happens to me

if I’m benched, traded, fined, or suddenly labeled unstable copies of these go public.”

The words echo.

The coach looks like he might faint.

Security takes a step forward.

Victor raises a hand, stopping them.

His expression is no longer calm.

It’s furious.

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Maybe.”

My hands are steady now.

Stronger than they’ve ever been.

“But I’m done playing for a crown that’s built on lies.”

A reporter shouts, “Are you walking away from the team?”

I hesitate.

Am I?

This is my life.

My identity.

The rink is the only place I’ve ever felt certain.

But certainty died the night Damon was traded.

“I’m walking away from him,” I say, nodding toward Victor.

The words feel like stepping off a cliff.

The room erupts.

Victor’s composure shatters just enough to show teeth.

“You think the league will side with you?” he asks quietly.

“I think they’ll side with evidence.”

“And if there isn’t enough?”

I met his gaze.

“Then I guess we’ll both find out how ugly this can get.”

For a long moment, neither of us moves.

It’s a standoff.

King and challenger.

Except I’m not kneeling.

Finally, Victor steps back from the podium.

“This press conference is over,” he announces coldly.

Security moves in.

Reporters shout questions.

Flashes blind me.

But I don’t look away from him.

Not once.

As I step down from the stage, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Unknown number.

I ignore it.

Another buzz.

Then another.

I pulled it out.

One new message.

From Damon.

You finally did it.

My chest tightens.

There’s a second message before I can respond.

They just called me.

I frown.

Called you about what?

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Then:

They’re reopening the trade investigation. And Victor’s name came up in something bigger than us.

A chill slides down my spine.

Bigger than us?

I glance back at Victor across the room.

He’s on his phone now, face tight.

Not in control anymore.

For the first time since he traded Damon, I see it

Fear.

My phone buzzes again.

You didn’t just challenge him, Damon writes.

You started a war.

I lift my gaze to Victor as security parts the crowd around him.

He looks at me like he wants me destroyed.

Maybe he will try.

But I didn’t step up there to win a game.

I stepped up there to take down a throne.

And as the doors slam shut behind him and the cameras keep rolling, one question burns in my mind

What happens when a king realizes he’s no longer untouchable?