His voice fills the silence, smooth and condescending. “Look, emotions run high in this game. Some guys just don’t know how to keep it together—especially when they’ve got off-ice distractions.” He pauses just long enough to twist the knife. “Sometimes it’s not about hockey at all, if you catch my drift.”
The host laughs. “You talking about Leo Voss?”
Grayson smirks. “I’m just saying—some people need to learn the difference between passion and losing control.”
My vision tunnels. The phone screen blurs. I slam it face down on the counter, the sound sharp and final. For a moment, I just stand there, shaking.
He said it without saying it. The implication. The threat.
And all I can see is Sage’s face when she hears her name next.
I close my eyes, drag in a breath that doesn’t help.
If this keeps going, if he drags her into it—I don’t know what I’ll do.
But I know one thing for sure: I can’t stay quiet anymore.
The apartment stays quiet, but not for long.
Just as the silence starts to settle, both our phones buzz on the kitchen counter at once—one sharp vibration after another. I glance at mine, and the headline freezes my blood.
Puck Whisperer Alert: “Voss’s Mystery Roommate Revealed? Sources Hint at Chef Connection.”
Sage returns and stands across the counter. Sage’s face drains of color. Her phone lights up with the same notification.
Our eyes meet. Neither of us speaks.
Whatever fragile peace we had left just shattered.
Chapter 23
Exposed
Sage
The morning comesharsh and unforgiving, sunlight cutting across the kitchen like it’s exposing every crack from last night. The headline burns across my screen before I’ve even finished my first sip of coffee.
Voss’s Mystery Roommate Revealed? Chef Linked to Surge Star.
My thumb trembles as I scroll. There it is—grainy, long-lens photos taken from across the street. Me, carrying a grocery bag up the front steps. Leo, a few steps behind me, holding the elevator door. The captions twist it into something it’s not:Late-night visits? Secret romance heating up in Surge star’s apartment complex.
A tight pressure coils low in my stomach, stealing my breath.
I scroll farther, but it only gets worse. The article digs through my online footprint like it’s a crime scene—restaurant tagged photos, a few old posts from culinary school, even a Yelp review I wrote three years ago. Every detail bent to fit their story. Their version of me.
I make the mistake of opening the comments.
The words slam into me like ice water.
Gold digger.Attention seeker.Another wannabe influencer.
Someone’s tagged my restaurant. Someone else has found my old headshot from a local magazine feature. I can’t breathe fast enough to keep up with the rush of humiliation crawling up my skin.
The coffee goes cold beside me. My hands shake so badly I set the mug down before I drop it.
The kitchen feels smaller. Too bright. Every sound—the hum of the fridge, the tick of the clock—sharpens until it’s unbearable. I grab my phone again, refreshing the article like an idiot, hoping it’ll disappear. But it doesn’t. It’s multiplying—different outlets copying it, reposting, twisting the headline into something worse each time.
Surge Star’s Secret Chef? Inside Leo Voss’s Private Life.
