The headline screamed:From Glamorous Ex to New Flame. Youngest NHL Coach Scores On and Off the Ice.
“Damn it,” I muttered, skimming the article.
A speculative caption about Tahoe West’s coach, his “new girl,” and his ex-wife, who’d moved up the ladder. She was engaged to the CEO of her company.
A prickle climbed the back of my neck. “Alright. Thanks.”
Asher nodded and walked off.
My breathing shortened, jaw clenched so tight it felt like air couldn’t get through. Heat burned in my chest. If my mug hadn’t been ceramic, it would’ve shattered in my grip.
I needed space. I made my way to the conference room, shut the door behind me, and planted both hands on the table. Head down, I dragged in a deep, needed breath.
She’d moved up the ladder, if you believed the gloss—an engagement ring, a corner office, curated success.
Evie had cried and apologized. I’d listened, calmer than I ever expected to be. Maybe because of all the years she postponed kids for work, or the endless travel that kept us passing each other like strangers. By then, I didn’t have much fight left in me. Her fling didn’t wreck our marriage; it confirmed what was already eroded.
In a twisted way, it was a relief. It stopped us from starting a family, only to raise a kid in silence and resentment.
At that fundraiser, when that photo was taken, the same man had shaken my hand, cracked jokes, and laughed with Evie as if they were old friends. Now I had a gnawing suspicion it hadn’t been that innocent.
If I was right, Mel had just walked into something a hell of a lot messier than a side-by-side before-and-after picture.
The headline was a problem, but my past colliding with my present? That was a real mess. My ex’s history, my suspicions, and a gossip page hungry for clicks—old wounds reopened, and unanswered questions surfaced things I never thought to dig up. And Mel—Mel would be measured against a ghost she neverasked to compete with, in front of an audience that didn’t care about truth or context.
Back then, I hadn’t cared to know who it was besidesa colleague from work, knowing wouldn’t have changed the betrayal. But now, the acid burning in my gut was eating me alive.
Had Evie been with him all along?
The muscle on the side of my neck went taut.
Showing up at Sam’s party as Mel’s boyfriend had felt simple. Not a set up for a love-triangle between new versus ex. Now, people would whisper, guess, watch. And that lit every fuse in me.
I could handle the press. I’d done it for years. But Mel wasn’t ready—not when she preferred the back row, not after everything she’d done to keep her family afloat.
I pulled out my phone and texted her.
Me:Hey, Cutie, are you here yet? I came in early.
Mel:Just leaving home now.
Me:K. Text me when you get in. Drive safe.
I messaged the team to start warm-ups with Dane, told them I had a holdup. Playoffs or not, I needed ten minutes to figure out whether we were catching fire or about to get burned.
Next, I called Nathan, our PR guy. Told him to look into the post.
Then I dialed Maria.
“Hey,” I said when she picked up. “I need a quick heads-up on something. Media-related, not hockey ops. If it’s possible, can you spare Mel when she gets in? I’d like to loop her in with PR.”
“Got it. I’ll flag her,” she said, no questions asked.
I hung up and dumped the rest of my coffee in the sink. My stomach couldn’t handle it.
Thirty minutes later, Nathan and I met in the third-floor conference room. His face was unreadable, as always.
“I found it,” he said, and slid the iPad across the table. “It’s from a sports gossip page that thrives on public photos and creative framing. Someone grabbed this party shot of you and Melanie off social media and paired it with an old press photo of you and Evie.”
