My Friend Shamed Me, He’s a Draft Pick

Chapter 2: The Charity Case

The heavy oak doors swung inward with a dramatic groan that seemed to cut right through the pulsing bass of the stereo. The cluster of girls around the leather sofa froze. The sycophantic giggles died in their throats, instantly replaced by wide eyes and dropped jaws as I stepped fully into the light of the living room.

I didn't storm in. I didn't scowl. I simply strolled forward with the leisurely, unhurried grace of someone who owned the room, my heels clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor.

"S-Sutton," Lyra stammered, her smug expression shattering like dropped glass. The red Solo cup in her hand tipped dangerously, sloshing cheap beer over her knuckles. "You... you made it! I didn't think you were actually coming."

"I told you I might drop by," I said, my voice smooth and perfectly modulated. I stopped a few feet away from her, letting my gaze sweep over the small crowd of underclassmen before settling back on my former best friend. "Though if I had known I was the main topic of entertainment, I would have made sure to arrive sooner. I hate missing a good performance."

A thick, suffocating tension descended over the corner of the room. A few of the younger girls looked like they wanted the floor to swallow them whole, nervously avoiding my eyes.

Lyra, however, recovered quickly. She was a sports management major, after all; pivoting under pressure was supposed to be her specialty. She plastered on a brilliant, entirely hollow smile and stood up, stepping toward me with open arms.

"Don't be silly, Sutton! We were just talking about how much we miss you," she cooed, enveloping me in a brief, stiff hug that smelled strongly of vanilla body mist and tequila. As she pulled back, her eyes raked up and down my outfit, likely trying to calculate the cost of my cashmere blazer and the designer bag resting on my shoulder. She clearly couldn't place the brands, which only seemed to bolster her misguided confidence.

"You look... well," Lyra continued, her tone laced with that same toxic, faux-pity she had been using moments before. "Motherhood must be exhausting. How is little Leo? And Nash? Is he holding up okay?"

"Leo is an angel," I replied, keeping my smile pleasantly opaque. "And Nash is doing exactly what he does best. Thriving."

Lyra’s smile strained at the edges. "Right. Well, I'm just so glad you reached out this morning. I know how hard it must be, trying to get back on your feet after everything that happened. The sports world moves so fast, it's easy to get left behind."

"Left behind," I repeated, tasting the words. They were so absurdly wrong I almost felt bad for her. Almost.

"Exactly," Lyra said, gaining momentum. She gestured to the circle of girls, clearly desperate to re-establish her dominance as the successful, connected upperclassman. "I was just telling the girls that I’d love to help you out. Since I’m practically managing Chase’s career now, I have a lot of pull with the athletic department. I talked to the equipment manager, and he said they’re always looking for extra hands in the laundry room. It’s not glamorous—mostly washing practice jerseys and scrubbing cleats—but it’s an honest living. It’s a foot in the door, Sutton."

She looked at me expectantly, waiting for the profound gratitude she felt she deserved. She was offering me a mop bucket while my husband practically owned the building.

I let out a soft sigh, adjusting the strap of my Italian leather bag. "Lyra, that's incredibly generous of you. Really. But if I wanted a menial job, I hardly think I’d need to bother my husband's former team for it. I just wanted a simple logistics position to pass the time."

Lyra let out a short, condescending laugh. "Sutton, sweetie, you have to be realistic. You've been out of the game for a year. Nash isn't the golden boy anymore. You can't just waltz in and expect a cushy desk job on his defunct reputation. The team has moved on. Chase is the future now."

Speak of the devil.

"Did I hear my name?"

A tall, broad-shouldered guy pushed his way through the crowd, an arrogant smirk plastered across his face. Chase had the classic athletic build, but he lacked the effortless, predatory grace that Nash possessed. Chase wore his varsity jacket like a costume; Nash wore his like a second skin.

Chase wrapped a possessive arm around Lyra’s waist, pulling her flush against him. He looked me up and down, his smirk widening into something that closely resembled a sneer. "Well, look who emerged from hiding. How's the domestic life treating you, Sutton? Tell Nash I said hi, assuming he gets off the couch long enough to hear you."

A few of Lyra's sycophants giggled nervously.

"I'll be sure to pass along your regards, Chase," I said, my voice dangerously soft. "Though I’m surprised you have the time to worry about Nash's couch habits. Shouldn't you be studying the playbook? I heard the new offensive coordinator is incredibly demanding, especially for the guys struggling to make the second string."

The barb hit its mark perfectly. The smirk slid right off Chase's face, a flash of genuine anger sparking in his eyes. It was an open secret in the athletic department that Chase was barely hanging onto his backup position, constantly outperformed by incoming freshmen.

"I'm the primary backup," Chase snapped, his chest puffing out defensively. "I'll be seeing plenty of field time this season. Scouts are already looking at me. Which is more than I can say for your husband. Look, Lyra’s doing you a massive favor here. The laundry job pays fifteen bucks an hour. Take it or leave it, but don't act like you're above it when your guy is a washed-up cripple."

The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The music was still thumping, the party still raging around us, but our little circle had descended into a tense, breathless silence. They were waiting for me to c***k. They were waiting for the tears, the embarrassment, the defensive shouting of a desperate woman.

Instead, I smiled. It wasn't the polite, serene smile from before. This was a smile with teeth. A smile that knew a secret so explosive it would leave nothing but craters in its wake.

"Fifteen dollars an hour," I mused, tilting my head slightly. "I suppose that would cover... what? A fraction of a fraction of my baby's organic formula? But please, Chase, don't overextend your 'pull' with the equipment manager on my behalf. I wouldn't want you to use up all your favors before you inevitably need to ask him for a job yourself next season."

Lyra gasped, her face flushing a deep, ugly red. "Sutton! That is so ungrateful and rude! We are literally trying to save you from poverty!"

"Save yourself, Lyra," I said gently, almost sympathetically. "Because the reality you're living in right now? It's about to shatter."

Before Lyra could unleash the angry tirade I saw building in her eyes, a sound tore through the crisp October night.

It started as a low, throaty rumble that vibrated through the floorboards, cutting cleanly over the hip-hop music playing inside. Then, it escalated into a ferocious, ear-splitting roar—the distinct, aggressive scream of a twelve-cylinder, twin-turbocharged engine. It wasn't just a car; it was a mechanical beast asserting its dominance over the entire street.

The sound was so deafening, so aggressively expensive, that conversations throughout the entire sorority house ground to a halt. People flocked to the large bay windows, pressing their faces against the glass to see what was making such a monstrous noise in the middle of Greek Row.

"What the hell is that?" Chase muttered, his anger momentarily forgotten as the primal appeal of a massive engine hijacked his attention.

I didn't need to look out the window. I knew exactly what—and who—it was.

The low-stress logistics job I had wanted? It seemed my husband had decided to handle my employment negotiations in his own unique, wildly dramatic way.

The monster engine revved one last time, vibrating the window panes, before shutting off right in front of the Delta Zeta house.

The real show was about to begin.