My stomach drops.
Grayson.
Chapter 27
Penalty Box
Sage
My phone won’t stop vibrating.
At first, it’s easy to ignore—the soft buzz weaving into the sound of the coffee machine sputtering in the kitchen. But then it happens again. And again. By the time I drag myself upright, the screen is lit up like a Christmas tree: notifications stacked so high I can’t even see where they start.
Mentions. Tags. DMs.
And right there at the top—the headline that turns my stomach inside out.
Chef Winslow: Hockey’s Most Expensive Distraction?
The Puck Whisperer’s logo sits just below it, smug and polished. I scroll, already knowing I shouldn’t. Every sentence feels like a new bruise. My catering business—mywork—has been reduced to gossip fodder. “Luxury meal prep for players.” “Using access to elite athletes to boost visibility.”
There’s a photo of me from last month’s event, smiling with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, re-captioned to sound like bait.Clout-chasing culinary darling turns up heat off the ice.
My throat tightens. I scroll faster, past the pull quotes and the speculation until I hit the comments.
That’s where the real poison lives.
She’s obviously with him for the money.
Guess sleeping with players is one way to get five-star reviews.
He’ll drop her when his suspension hits.
I drop the phone on the bed like it burns. My reflection in the window looks pale, small. It shouldn’t hurt this much—it’s just noise. But it feels personal, like they’ve peeled something raw and private open for sport.
The knock on my door startles me. I pull on a sweatshirt before answering.
It’s my downstairs neighbor, Marie, holding up a tablet. “Sage, honey, you seeing this?”
I nod, voice rough. “Yeah. I’m seeing it.”
Her brows knit together. “People are cruel.”
“Yeah,” I say again, forcing a smile I don’t feel. “They are.”
By the time I make it to the restaurant, my stomach’s already in knots. The kitchen hums with the usual lunch rush—steam, chatter, orders being barked—but I can feel the shift the second I walk in. Heads turn. Conversations drop off. Phones lower just a little too late.
As I step farther into the kitchen, the heat from the stoves wraps around me, thick with the smell of butter and spice. My pulse kicks up, every conversation suddenly sharper in my ears. Ron, my manager, intercepts me near the prep station. His expression is kind, but his tone is clipped. “Sage, can we talk?”
That’s never a good sentence.
He leads me to the office, closing the door behind us. “You know I’ve got your back,” he starts, and that’s how I know I’m about to lose something.
I nod. “But?”
He sighs. “But we can’t keep handling press calls. It’s nonstop—people asking for statements, reservations spiking for the wrong reasons. I think it’s best if you take a week. Let it cool off.”
The words sink like stones. “You’re benching me.”
