My throat dries instantly. The article thumbnail is his game photo — jaw clenched, helmet off, eyes narrowed. I click before I can stop myself.
The piece is short. Sensational. It mentions the penthouse flood, the “mysterious relocation,” the “impact on his leadership,” and one line that makes my stomach lurch:‘Sources close to the team suggest Voss hasn’t been staying alone.’
No name. No photo. But my hands are still trembling when I set the phone down.
I read it again. And again. The words blur. It doesn’t matter that it’s vague. It doesn’t matter that it’s just speculation. I can already feel the weight of it — the way gossip seeps into cracks, spreads fast, stains everything it touches.
Maya appears in the doorway, holding a towel over one shoulder. “You’re still here?”
I blink up, forcing a weak smile. “Just finishing up.”
She narrows her eyes, reading me too easily. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Something like that.” I shove the phone into my pocket. “Just tired.”
“Tired,” she repeats, unimpressed. Then, softer, “Don’t let him wreck your peace, Sage. Whoever he is.”
I laugh, brittle and humorless. “You make it sound like I had any to begin with.”
She tilts her head, watching me for another heartbeat before walking away. When she’s gone, the silence floods back in — heavier this time.
I sink down from the counter, leaning against the cold metal edge. My chest feels tight. The image of Leo’s face on that screenwon’t leave me — the pressure in his expression, the storm brewing behind his eyes. And now this.
I know what a rumor can do. How fast it spreads, how deep it cuts. I built my career on staying invisible — keeping my head down, my private life private. But if even a whiff of this story points back to me.
I press my palms against my face, forcing myself to breathe. In. Out. Steady.
You did nothing wrong, I tell myself. He’s an adult. You’re an adult. One mistake doesn’t define you. But it’s a hollow mantra, and I don’t believe it.
Because the truth is, one mistake has always defined me.
By the time I get home, the city’s gone still — the kind of winter quiet that makes every sound echo. My feet ache, my head throbs, and all I want is to crawl into bed and forget the world exists. But even before I reach my door, I feel it: the weight of the day still clinging to me. The article. The looks. The noise in my head that won’t quit.
I unlock the apartment and step into dimness. The lights from the street cast thin stripes across the floor. Leo’s bag isn’t by the couch anymore — he must’ve gone to the rink early or found somewhere else to crash. The thought stings in a way I don’t want to examine.
I toss my keys onto the counter, rubbing the knot in my neck. The silence is almost soothing. Until the intercom buzzes.
I jump. The sound slices through the apartment, harsh and unexpected. For a second, I just stare at it, heart hammering. Then it buzzes again, insistent.
“Yeah?” My voice cracks when I hit the button.
“Delivery for Sage Winslow,” a man says, bored, like he’s already done this a hundred times tonight.
I frown. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Name’s on the tag.”
I hesitate, then press the door release. Footsteps echo in the stairwell a minute later, and when I open the door, a guy in a courier jacket stands there with a bouquet — pale roses, wrapped tight in white paper. He hands them over without meeting my eyes.
“Who are they from?” I ask, already knowing he’ll shrug.
“No card.”
“Of course not,” I mutter, signing anyway. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me in the hallway glow, staring at the flowers like they’re a riddle.
They’re beautiful — almost too perfect. No scent, no message. Just soft petals and sharp thorns peeking through the paper. My stomach twists. I don’t know why, but something about them feels… wrong.
Back inside, I set them on the counter, the stems dripping faintly onto the granite. My phone’s in my hand before I realize it, thumb hovering over Leo’s contact. It’s late. He’ll be asleep, or pretending to be. Still, I type before I can talk myself out of it.
