I nod, though my chest feels tight. “You don’t have to protect me, Leo.”
He gives a small, humorless smile. “Yeah, I do.”
Before I can respond, a sharpknockcuts through the stillness. We both freeze. He grabs the sheet, sitting up, eyes narrowing toward the door.
Another knock. Louder this time.
He stands, pulling on his sweats, crossing the room in a few long strides. The sound of paper sliding under the door follows a moment later.
He bends to pick it up. His jaw clenches.
“Leo?” I ask, already knowing the answer’s bad.
He turns, holding a thick envelope stamped with the Surge logo. His voice is low when he reads it aloud.
“League Conduct Review. Attendance confirmed.”
The words land like a punch.
I pull the sheet tighter around myself, the air suddenly colder. “What does that mean?”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. “It means they’re coming for me.”
The paper trembles slightly in his hand, and I realize it’s not fear—it’s fury. Quiet, contained, lethal.
My throat goes dry. “Grayson won’t stop, will he?”
Leo finally meets my gaze. His eyes are fire and ice all at once. “No. Not until he takes us both down.”
Chapter 26
Under Fire
Leo
The conference roomfeels colder than the rink.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, white and sterile. The long table stretches between me and the row of people deciding my fate—executives, PR reps, a league official with a pen poised like a weapon. My reflection stares back from the glossy tabletop: stone-faced, jaw locked, every muscle coiled tight.
Claire leans in before the meeting starts, her voice a whisper meant for me alone. “Stick to the facts. No emotion. No Sage.”
My throat tightens. “Got it.”
The double doors close with a soft click. The sound feels final.
A man in a navy suit clears his throat, flipping through his notes like he already knows how this will end. “Mr. Voss,” he begins, voice smooth, professional. “We’re here to discuss the altercation that took place in the parking garage two nights ago. Surveillance footage, eyewitness statements, and recent media coverage have raised questions about your conduct.”
I clasp my hands on the table to keep them steady. “Understood.”
“Let’s be clear,” another exec cuts in. “This isn’t about one incident. It’s about apattern.” He leans back, eyes sharp. “Fights on the ice. Confrontations off it. Headlines you seem to collect faster than goals.”
The comment lands like a body check. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. Claire’s warning rings in my head:No emotion.
“I take responsibility for my actions,” I say evenly. “But I don’t start fights. I finish them when someone crosses a line.”
“Whose line?” the man asks, voice dripping with condescension. “Yours?”
The question hangs there, bait disguised as formality. I force myself to breathe slow, deliberate.
