Rowan’s already typing. “On it. Plus a neat note to the alumni committee about ‘student safety at donor events.’ That hits ego and endowment.”
Joy grins. “We’ve queued a week of posts—LinkedIn replies under his fluff, comments on firm announcements, a few spicy tweets.” She tilts her screen: #WhereIsMyMoneyMax #FinanceBroFraud #ComplianceCC’d. “We’ll still need amplifiers—alumni reshares, maybe a bored journalist.”
“Remind me to never fuck with you,” Liz mutters, incredulous. “And I thought human anatomy was complex.”
Jess leans back, satisfied despite herself. “Make sure tipsgo to BrokerCheck and the SEC site. Even if nothing sticks, ‘under review’ next to his name will hurt.”
Rowan smirks. “And I’ve got a Glassdoor draft—’senior associate with extracurricular liabilities.’ Subtle. Painfully accurate.”
Liz reaches across the table, lacing her fingers with mine. “Clients google. Partners gossip. That stain won’t scrub out.”
Joy lifts her iced coffee, eyes bright. “Nate throws punches. We tank reputations.”
Rowan clinks her glass to Joy’s. “Hear hear. Bruises fade. SEO doesn’t.”
Jess points at them both, commander-in-chief. “We are not vigilantes. We surface documented behavior and route it where it belongs. Clear?”
“In stereo,” Rowan and Joy say, not remotely chastened.
Jess exhales, her shoulders loosening. “It won’t be tomorrow. But give it a week? A month? He’s radioactive. By the time theJournalwhispers start, his firm will ghost him.”
For the first time since last night, my chest expands. Justice might crawl. This has real teeth.
I lean back, close my eyes, and let the words out. “Let the rapist burn.”
40
MAKING LEMONADE (NATE)
Morning skate scrapes the edge off a sleepless stretch, but the tension stays wired through me. That’s the thing about being a pro in midseason—you don’t get to numb the ache with a bender. By the time I hit the locker room, sweat cooling under my hoodie, the guys are quiet. No chirps. Just sidelong looks. Everyone knows what went down two nights ago.
The image won’t leave me alone—Eden launching herself at Miller, raw fury in her voice as she named what he’d done to her. Then my fists connecting with his face, over and over, until my teammates dragged me off. I’d do it again. But watching her relive that trauma, seeing her pain spilling out in front of cameras—that guts me.
Coach’s voice cuts through the silence. “Russo. Upstairs.”
It’s not a request.
The walk up to his office feels endless. When I push the door open, Rothschild sits in his three-piece armor, hands folded. Rowan and Jess flank the conference table, laptops open, the glow of damage control written all over theirfaces. At the end of the table, Elliot Marks—my agent—adjusts his tie and nods.
Coach doesn’t waste time. “Miller spent a night in the hospital. Concussion protocol.”
My jaw tightens. “Good. The bastard deserved it,” I say flatly. I don’t intend to apologize; I’d do it again if I had the chance.
Rothschild’s gaze is cool. “I’m aware of the circumstances, Russo. His attorney called this morning.”
Elliot clears his throat. “If he files, the NHLPA and I will handle it.”
Rowan flicks a glance up from her screen, mouth curving just slightly. “There will be no need for that. Apparently he’s decided not to pursue charges.”
The breath I didn’t know I was holding escapes. “What?”
“Changed his mind,” Jess says carefully. “Seems he’s got some other issues occupying his attention right now.”
Rowan’s shrug is a little too casual, but I don’t push. Whatever’s happening to Miller, I’ll take it.
Rothschild leans forward, voice sharp. “Don’t mistake this for a free pass, Russo. This franchise does not bleed for one man’s temper—not even yours.” His stare cuts straight through me. “You’re suspended. One game. And you’ll complete community service through the Foundation.”
Coach leans in, eyes hard. “Lindberg starts tonight. Call it a suspension, call it a benching—I don’t care.” He lets it hang, then growls, “And how many times do I have to say this? Women who work for this team are off limits. You keep pretending you didn’t hear me, and it blows up in our faces every damn time.”
