Siren in Waiting

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Trevor McNamara looked around the office. It was a pristinely kept work space. It was neat and pin perfect, like the man who sat behind the opulent desk—a man Trev was sure had to be joking. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

The general manager of the San Antonio Bandits leaned forward. There was a slightly sympathetic look on Curt Goff’s face as he steepled his hands together. “You’re fired, Trevor.”

“You can’t fire me.” Trev said the words, but his brain was still trying to process those two words that threatened to end his football career.

The words didn’t end your career, idiot. You did that when you started in on the coke. The booze wasn’t enough, was it? You just had to go for more.

“I think you’ll find I can. In your contract, there’s a clause that states plainly if you flunk three drug tests in a row, I can fire you.”

Trev’s head pounded. How had he flunked the last drug test? He’d paid the tech off to switch the results. Panic threatened to swamp him. He couldn’t get fired. He had bills to pay. Lots of fucking bills. “I’ll call my union rep.”

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