Chapter 85 The Offer
Harper's POV,
The email came on a Tuesday morning while I was between clients, sitting in my office eating yogurt and trying to convince myself that Greek yogurt with honey actually tasted like dessert instead of punishment.
It was from Marcus Chen. Subject line: URGENT - Major Opportunity for Crew.
I opened it, expecting another interview request or charity appearance. Instead, I got three attached PDFs and a message that made my yogurt taste even more like cardboard.
Harper,
Apex Athletic (think Nike-level) wants Crew as the face of their new "Performance Without Compromise" campaign. This is MASSIVE. We're talking $3.2M over two years, plus royalties on any signature gear. It would change everything for you both.
But there's a complication. I need you to read the contract—specifically section 12, the morality clause—and call me. Today if possible.
This could be life-changing. But it's complicated.
- Marcus
I clicked on the first PDF. Standard endorsement contract—appearances, social media obligations, exclusivity requirements. Nothing surprising until I got to page 47.
Section 12: Morality and Public Image Standards
The ATHLETE agrees to maintain a public image consistent with APEX ATHLETIC's brand values, including but not limited to:
\- No illegal substance use or abuse
\- No public intoxication or behavior that suggests substance dependency
\- No criminal charges or convictions
\- No association with organizations, causes, or individuals that promote or normalize substance abuse
The ATHLETE specifically represents and warrants that they have no history of substance abuse, addiction, or dependency that would compromise APEX ATHLETIC's "Performance Without Compromise" brand messaging...
I read it three times.
They wanted Crew to be the face of their clean living campaign. The athlete who succeeds through discipline and natural ability. The role model for kids who want to make it without shortcuts.
And they specifically required him to have no history of addiction.
Which meant lying. Publicly. About the thing he'd worked so hard to be honest about.
I checked the time. Crew was at practice until noon. I had one client scheduled at eleven, then a break. I called Marcus.
He answered immediately. "You read it."
"The morality clause."
"Yeah."
"Marcus, he can't sign this. He literally published an article three weeks ago about being in recovery. This contract is asking him to pretend that never happened."
"Not exactly." Marcus's voice had that careful quality he used when he was about to say something he knew I'd hate. "The article never mentioned specific substances. It talked about 'pain management challenges' and 'learning healthier coping mechanisms.' Technically, he could interpret that as meaning he overcame general stress, not opioid addiction."
"That's semantics."
"That's PR."
"It's lying."
"It's emphasizing certain truths while de-emphasizing others." He paused. "Harper, I know how this sounds. But this money would be transformative. You could expand the clinic. Crew could set up his post-hockey future. You could stop worrying about bills for the first time since you moved to Vancouver."
I was quiet, staring at the contract on my screen. $3.2 million. Plus royalties.
"What does Crew think?" I asked.
"I haven't told him yet. I wanted to talk to you first. Because Harper, if he signs this, you both have to commit to a specific narrative. No more detailed recovery talk. No specifics about rehab or meetings or any of it. The public story becomes: Crew had a rough patch, learned better habits, moved forward. Clean and simple."
"You mean dishonest and profitable."
"I mean strategic and beneficial." His voice softened. "Look, I'm not telling you what to do. I'm telling you what the opportunity is. But you need to make this decision together. And you need to make it fast—Apex wants an answer by Friday."
After we hung up, I sat there holding my phone, feeling sick.
Three point two million dollars.
For lying about the thing that almost killed him.
\---
My eleven o'clock client was Andrea, the runner I'd been treating for IT band syndrome for six weeks. She was finally running pain-free, excited about an upcoming half-marathon, and I was nodding along while my brain screamed about endorsement deals and moral compromises.
"You seem distracted," Andrea said halfway through her session.
"Sorry. Just a lot on my mind."
"Everything okay? With Crew? I saw he's back playing after the injury."
"He's good. Really good, actually. Just... life stuff. You know."
She smiled. "Life stuff with a professional hockey player husband. Must be complicated."
"You have no idea."
After Andrea left, James poked his head into my office. "You okay? You look stressed."
"I'm fine. Just thinking about something."
"Is it about the clinic? Because I wanted to talk to you about potentially adding Saturday evening hours. I know we discussed—"
"James." I cut him off, not unkindly. "Can we table this? I really need to focus on something else right now."
He looked hurt but nodded. "Sure. Of course. Sorry."
After he left, I felt guilty. James had been incredible—taking on more clients, handling emergencies, making the clinic actually sustainable. And here I was being short with him because I was spiraling about money I didn't even have yet.
Money we could only get by compromising something essential.
\---
Crew got home around two, smelling like the particular combination of ice rink and body wash that I'd come to associate with practice days. He kissed me, raided the fridge, and collapsed on the couch with leftover Chinese food.
"Marcus called me," he said around a mouthful of cold noodles. "Said you guys talked. About Apex."
"You know about the offer?"
"He emailed me this morning. I haven't looked at the contract yet." He set down the takeout container. "But he mentioned the morality clause. The part about having no history of substance abuse."
I sat next to him. "It's a lot of money."
"It's a shit ton of money."
"It would solve basically everything. The clinic. Your future. We could stop living paycheck to paycheck."
"But I'd have to lie about being an addict." He said it flatly. Matter-of-fact. "Or at least obscure it enough that people think I just had 'performance anxiety' or whatever sanitized version Marcus wants to sell."
"Would that be the worst thing? You've been public about recovery. You did the article. You've been honest. Maybe this is just... protecting your privacy now. Not telling strangers every detail of your medical history."
Crew looked at me for a long moment. "Do you believe that? Or are you trying to convince yourself?"
I didn't answer.
He pulled out his phone, opened the email from Marcus, started scrolling through the attached contract. I watched his face as he read—neutral at first, then increasingly tight.
"'No association with organizations that promote or normalize substance abuse,'" he read aloud. "Harper, I go to NA meetings three times a week. That's literally an organization that addresses substance abuse. Would I have to stop going?"
"Marcus would probably say you just don't publicize it."
"Which means hiding it. Which means shame." He kept reading. "'The ATHLETE specifically represents and warrants that they have no history of substance abuse, addiction, or dependency.' That's not strategic wording. That's a direct lie. I'd have to sign a legal document saying I've never been addicted to anything."
"Unless you interpret 'history' as meaning current, not past."
"That's bullshit semantics and you know it." He set his phone down. "Harper, I almost died. I was taking triple doses before games. I doctor-shopped across three states. I stole pills from teammates. That's not 'performance challenges.' That's addiction. Real, ugly, almost-fatal addiction."
"I know."
"And now I'm supposed to pretend that never happened so a shoe company can sell their 'natural performance' message?"
"For three million dollars," I said quietly.
"For three million dollars," he repeated.
We sat in silence. Outside, Vancouver rain started—soft at first, then heavier, the kind of autumn rain that made you want to stay inside forever.
"What do you want to do?" I asked finally.
"I want the money," Crew admitted. "God, Harper, I want it so bad. I want to tell you to quit the clinic if you want to, open a bigger space, hire ten people, never worry about rent again. I want to know my mom's taken care of. I want to not wake up at three AM wondering what happens when my contract ends and I can't play anymore."
"But?"
"But I also want to stay clean. And I don't know if I can stay clean while publicly lying about being an addict. Dr. Okonkwo says secrets keep us sick. That shame is what feeds addiction." He rubbed his face. "I finally got to a place where I'm not ashamed. Where I can say 'I'm Crew, I'm a recovering addict' and not feel like I'm confessing a crime. And this contract wants to take that away."
I reached for his hand. "We don't have to decide right now."
"Marcus wants an answer by Friday."
"Then we have three days. Let's sit with it. Talk to Dr. Okonkwo. Talk to David. Make sure we're making the right choice, not just the profitable one."
Crew pulled me against him, and we lay there on the couch listening to the rain, both of us thinking about money and morality and whether there was a world where we could have both.
My phone buzzed. Text from Maya: Heard about the Apex deal. That's massive. You guys must be celebrating.
I didn't respond.
Because we weren't celebrating.
We were trying to figure out how much of Crew's soul was worth three million dollars.
And whether we could live with the answer.