Another official slides a document toward me. “Do you deny that you physically confronted Grayson Locke?”
The name burns, but I don’t let it show. “No.”
“Do you deny threatening him verbally?”
I meet his gaze. “No.”
“Then tell us, Mr. Voss—why?”
Because he dragged the woman I love into the spotlight—turned her name into a weapon and her silence into headlines. Because he doesn’t know when to stop, not when there’s power in watching someone flinch. Because every time her picture flashes on a screen, I see the fear she hides behind that steady voice, and I hate that I’m part of it.
I love her. I haven’t said it out loud—not to her, not to anyone—but it’s there, pulsing under my ribs like a bruise I can’t protect. She’s the first thing that steadies me and the last thing that could break me. And I’m one bad headline away from losing it all—from losingher.
But none of that belongs in this room. Not with the suits who measure worth in sponsorships and damage control. So I bury it,deep. I let the words calcify behind my teeth until what’s left is something the league can stomach.
“He provoked me,” I say evenly. “I reacted. Poorly.”
The smug exec across from me smirks. “You’re becoming more headline than player, Mr. Voss.”
The words slice deep, but I swallow the anger, gripping the table edge until my knuckles ache. Sage’s voice flashes through my head:Don’t let him win.
So I don’t. I look the man straight in the eye and say nothing.
The silence stretches long enough to make them shift in their seats.
Claire steps in smoothly, redirecting. “Mr. Voss understands the gravity of the situation. He’s here to cooperate fully with the league and the team.”
It’s the kind of line that sounds good in a headline. The kind I’ve learned to live with.
When the meeting adjourns, I stand. My legs feel heavy, but my hands? Steady. For now.
Claire catches up to me in the hallway, heels clicking fast against the tile. “You did what you needed to,” she says, shoving a folder into my hands. “Next step is PR containment. We control what goes out before someone else does.”
“Translation?” I ask, still walking.
“Translation—you keep your mouth shut. No comments, no interviews, no social media. We’ll release a joint statement through the Surge.”
I stop, turning to face her. “And what happens if that’s not enough?”
She exhales, rubbing her temple. “Best case, you get fined and slapped with a mandatory PR rehab program. Worst case—‘conduct detrimental’ suspension.”
The words hit harder than they should. Suspension. Like a guillotine hanging over my season.
Claire lowers her voice. “Look, Leo, I know how this looks. But this isn’t the end of your career. We can fix this.”
“Fix it?” I echo, jaw tightening. “By pretending it’s not happening?”
“By being smarter than the people waiting for you to snap.” She steps closer, voice softening. “You walk out of here angry, they win. You keep your head down, you live to fight another day.”
I run a hand through my hair, staring past her toward the frosted glass doors at the end of the hall. Cameras flash faintly outside, a swarm of vultures waiting to feed.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “Fight another day.”
She looks relieved, which tells me she doesn’t hear the way my tone curdles around the wordfight.
We exit the building together, but she peels off toward her car before we reach the sidewalk. The second she’s gone, the sound hits me—the chaotic buzz of reporters, the shouted questions, the pop of camera shutters.
“Leo! Over here!” “Voss, care to comment on the review?” “Is the relationship real or just PR damage control?”
