Chef Winslow: Hockey’s Biggest Distraction.
Grayson Locke’s name sits right under it, bold and smug. Once, that name had meant competition and respect; now it feels like a bruise that won’t fade. I read the first paragraph once, then again, even though every word feels like a punch to the ribs. Sources close to the team suggest Voss’s personal entanglement with local chef Sage Winslow has caused a decline in focus both on and off the ice.
Entanglement. Decline. Distraction.
He doesn’t even bother hiding the tone—just layers it with that fake journalist veneer, like he’s doing the league a favor by gutting us publicly.
My jaw locks as I scroll down to the photos. He’s used the same grainy shots from last night’s article but framed them worse. Cropped tighter. One shows Sage mid-laugh, the other of me walking behind her, head down like I’ve got something to hide.
I grip my phone until the plastic creaks.
The comments section is a war zone—people dissecting her, me, us. Strangers debating if she’s “the reason he can’t score” or “the girl who’s ruining his career.”
I toss the phone onto the counter hard enough that it slides into the wall. It hits with a dull thud but doesn’t break. Pity.
The apartment feels smaller, louder. The fridge hums. The clock ticks. My pulse won’t slow down. I drag a hand through my hair and grab my keys.
Sitting here isn’t going to fix it. Reading it again won’t help. I need tomove.
The Surge facility is twenty minutes away, but I drive like I’m being chased. When I hit the parking lot, the sky’s still gray, heavy with snow that refuses to fall. I don’t bother with a coat. I just head straight through the front doors.
Claire Han’s office smells like coffee and stress. She’s on the phone, headset on, typing something when I storm in. She lifts her gaze without surprise—like she’s been expecting this.
“You saw it,” she says flatly, ending the call.
I shove my phone toward her. “You’re telling me the league’s fine with this? With Locke painting her like she’s—like this isher fault?”
Claire doesn’t flinch. “The league isn’t fine with it, Leo. But they’re also not going to issue a press release every time someone with a microphone runs their mouth.”
I pace in front of her desk, every nerve in my body buzzing. “He’s crossing lines, Claire. He’s not just coming after me anymore.”
She leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “You can’t punch every headline, Leo. Stay quiet or they’ll make you the villain.”
“I’m already the villain,” I mutter.
“Not yet,” she says. “But if you lose it, they’ll make sure you are.”
Her voice is calm, clinical, but her eyes are sharp—sympathy buried under realism. “PR wants total lockdown. No interviews. No off-the-record comments. You keep your head down, you let it burn out. Understood?”
I exhale through my nose, jaw still tight. “Yeah. Understood.”
But the words taste like a muzzle.
The weight of Claire’s words still sits on my chest long after I leave her office. The hall outside hums with movement—skates clacking against tile, trainers calling out schedules, the faint squeak of wheels from an equipment cart—but it all feels distant. I walk through it like I’m underwater.
By the time I hit the gym, I’m running on muscle memory alone. The sound of clanging weights and pounding treadmills fills the air, grounding and relentless. I grab a set of dumbbells and drop onto a bench, the metal cold against my palms.
I need to burn this out of my system before it eats me alive.
“Lockdown, huh?” Gabe’s voice cuts through the noise. He’s leaning against a rack a few feet away, towel slung over his shoulder, sweat still dripping from his temple. “Claire already got to you?”
I don’t look up. “You heard.”
He snorts. “Everyone heard. News travels faster than pucks around here.”
I push through another set, the strain in my arms the only thing keeping me from snapping. “I’m supposed to stay quiet.”
Gabe raises a brow. “And you’re gonna listen to that?”
