“It’s not punishment,” he says quickly. “It’s just optics.”
I laugh under my breath, sharp and humorless. “Optics. Right.”
Ron’s shoulders drop. “You don’t deserve this, Sage.”
I know he means it. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
When I step back out into the kitchen, the air feels different. Thinner. I grab my apron off the hook anyway, just to have something in my hands. But the truth lands before I can stop it.
Leo’s not the only one under review.
Maya shows up at my apartment that evening, hair still damp from her shift, expression thunderous. She doesn’t even knock—just storms in, holding up her phone. “You’ve seen it, right? The new post?”
I sink into the couch, exhausted. “Yeah. I’ve seen it.”
“It’s disgusting,” she says, pacing the living room. “He’s twisting everything. You should sue him. I’m serious, Sage.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out hollow. “For what? Defamation? Public humiliation? That would just give him another headline.”
Maya stops pacing long enough to look at me. “So you’re just gonna let him win?”
The words sting, mostly because they sound familiar. “It’s not about winning. It’s about surviving the week.”
She drops down beside me, shaking her head. “You’re better than this. He’s making you out to be some kind of social climber when all you’ve done is work your ass off.”
“I know.” My voice cracks on the word. “But knowing it doesn’t change anything.”
Maya’s quiet for a beat. Then, softer: “You talked to Leo?”
“Not yet.” I rub my temples, the dull ache behind my eyes building. “He had the league hearing this morning. I didn’t want to make it worse.”
Her hand lands gently on my knee. “You’re not what’s making it worse.”
I wish I believed her.
The phone on the coffee table buzzes again. This time, it’s a text from Leo.
Suspended three games. No pay. I’ll be home soon.
My stomach twists, a mix of dread and something heavier. It’s not the suspension itself—it’s what I know it means to him. Hockey isn’t just his job; it’s the thing that’s kept him alive. Losing even a few games will tear him apart.
Maya sees my face change. “What is it?”
“He’s coming home,” I say quietly. “And he’s not gonna take it well.”
Maya squeezes my hand. “Then maybe it’s your turn to hold him up for once.”
I nod, though my heart feels like it’s splintering. “Yeah,” I whisper. “Maybe it is.”
The apartment door clicks open just after eight. I’m sitting on the couch, lights dim, the muted glow of the TV flickering against the walls. The sound of keys hitting the counter breaks the quiet.
Leo doesn’t say anything at first. His jaw ticks, the muscles flexing as if he’s chewing back words. The air between us feels thick, heavy with everything he isn’t saying. He just stands there in the doorway, still in his team jacket, shoulders hunched like the weight of the entire league is sitting on them. His face looks different—tired, hollowed out, the sharp edge of his frustration dulled into something heavier.
“Hey,” I say softly.
He looks up. “Hey.” The word sounds like gravel.
I start to stand, but he waves a hand. “Don’t. I just need a second.” He drops onto the armchair across from me, elbows braced on his knees. The silence stretches. The only sound is the low hum of the fridge and the city outside.
