Page 337 of Bad Prince
I don’t answer.
Mostly because if I do, I’m not sure it’ll stop at words.
So he gives me one last shot instead.
“I see through your pretty-boy bullshit.”
That lands too.
Not because it’s clever.
Because it’s the kind of line guys like him love saying to guys like me. Like money erases hunger. Like trust funds erase damage. Like polish means there’s nothing feral underneath it.
For one second, I actually consider finishing it.
Right here.
Staff, season, consequences—none of it feels particularly urgent compared to the urge to put him through the rehab table.
Kane feels me tense.
His arm firms across my chest.
“Don’t.”
I don’t know if he means it for me or for the team.
Probably both.
Travers turns and walks out before anybody can stop him, shoulders still hard, jaw tight, every inch of him broadcasting righteous anger like a flare.
The room exhales the second the door shuts.
Conversation starts back in pieces.
A trainer clears his throat.
Tape rips somewhere behind me.
The assistant coach looks at me like he’d love to say something but likes winning too much to push it right now.
Kane drops his arm and looks at me.
“What the hell was that?”
I drag a hand over my face.
Stella is gone.
Travers is gone.
The whole room still smells like tension and antiseptic and the kind of mess you can’t document on a stat sheet.
“What did it look like?”
Kane gives me a long, unreadable stare.
Then he says, “It looked like you’re one bad day from blowing up your own life.”
