Her gaze flicks up to mine. “And you?”
I hesitate, then shrug. “I’ll make my own statement. Quiet. Controlled. Tell them what happened without giving Locke what he wants.”
Sage studies me, like she’s weighing how much of that she believes. “You think you can do that without blowing up?”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “I can try.”
The silence that follows isn’t heavy—it’s charged. There’s something grounding about this, sitting side by side at the counter, two cups of cold coffee between us and a plan taking shape. For the first time in weeks, it feels like we’re moving forward instead of bracing for impact.
Sage leans back, tapping her pen against the table. “You know what this means, right? Once we go public, there’s no going back. No more hiding.”
“I know.” I glance at her, voice steady. “That’s the point.”
Her expression softens, but her eyes are fierce. “Then we do it together.”
Before I can respond, her phone buzzes on the table. She flips it over—and freezes.
Her face drains of color. “Oh, God.”
“What is it?”
She turns the screen toward me. The livestream replay—Grayson’s smug face front and center—has already hit over a million views.
And at the top of the comments, pinned and glowing in neon white:If he won’t dump her, maybe the league will.
The air leaves the room. Sage looks at me, and I can see the same thought flicker in her eyes that’s been gnawing at mine all night.
What if that’s exactly the plan?
Chapter 29
Body Check
Sage
The apartment feels charged,the air thick with leftover tension from Grayson’s broadcast, thrumming with the leftover noise from Grayson’s broadcast. I can still hear his voice — that smug, practiced tone — echoing in my head. My name rolling off his tongue like a punchline. Like I’m just a scandal, not a chef who worked her ass off to get here.
I pace the kitchen, barefoot on cold tile, my heartbeat thrumming louder than the hum of the fridge. Every headline feels like a slap.Sage Winslow: The Coach’s Distraction. The PR Problem. The Kitchen Flame-Out.It doesn’t matter what I cook or create — somehow, it always circles back tohim.Orus.Or whatever story people want to tell.
Leo’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching me like he’s waiting for the storm to break. “Sage,” he says carefully, that quiet steadiness that used to calm me. “You should ignore it. It’ll blow over.”
“Blow over?” I whirl on him, heat rushing to my cheeks. “Do you think this is weather, Leo? Do you think I can just wait for the forecast to change?”
He exhales, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m saying it’s noise. They’ll move on when something shinier shows up.”
“Right.” I let out a sharp laugh, one that sounds more like a crack. “Until the next time someone decides I’m an easy headline. The girl who can’t keep her job or her mouth shut. The one who got too close to the team.”
He flinches, and I know I’ve hit somewhere soft. But I’m too far gone to stop. “You don’t get it,” I spit out. “You can skate through this, shrug it off. I’m the punchline, Leo. I’m the one who gets burned.”
Something flickers in his eyes — frustration, hurt, maybe both. “You think I don’t get burned?” His voice rises, rough. “You think it’s easy watching them tear you apart and knowing I can’t fix it without making it worse?”
The words hang there between us, hot and jagged. The air feels too thick to breathe. I can see the muscle in his jaw working, like he’s holding back a hundred things he wants to say but shouldn’t.
And I’m shaking — not from fear, but from fury, exhaustion, and this ache that’s been simmering under my ribs since the first time the media twisted my name into something ugly. “I just wanted to do my job,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
Leo’s silence answers me louder than words could. The tension hums between us, as sharp and close as the space we’re both trying not to cross.
The silence between us stretches until it feels unbearable. The hum of the fridge, the city outside, even my own heartbeat—all of it fades under the weight of everything we’ve both just said.Then Leo finally moves, pushing off the counter like he’s bracing himself for a hit.
