She’s standing by the window, shoulders squared but tense. The early morning light hits her hair, turns it copper-gold, but there’s nothing warm about her expression. She doesn’t say anything when I reach for the phone — she just slides it toward me without looking up.
The headline glares back:The Chef Speaks — Inside Source Reveals Sage Winslow’s Side of the Story.I scroll, jaw tightening as the words blur together. It’s worse than last night’s mess. The article doesn’t just rehash her fallout with Grayson; ittwists it, paints her as someone clawing for relevance, using her connection tomeas her ticket back. There’s even a photo — an old one from a team event, cropped close so it looks intimate. Convenient.
But what makes my stomach drop isn’t the speculation. It’s the details.Mydetails.
The article mentions my conditioning routine. My post-game diet. Even the name of the private facility I’ve been using since the suspension. Those aren’t public. They’re from inside the Surge locker room.
I read the line again, slower this time. “Sources close to the team confirm the suspended captain continues to train privately under Surge supervision.” I feel my pulse thrum in my neck. Someone’s talking. Someone who wants this fire to spread.
Behind me, Sage’s voice comes quiet. “It’s from your team, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer right away. I scroll again, scanning for a name, a hint, anything that might give it away. Nothing. Whoever fed this knew exactly how to hide their tracks.
Finally, I set the phone down, my hand tight around it like it might break. “Yeah,” I mutter. “Someone inside.”
She turns then, eyes meeting mine. They’re tired — not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the kind that comes from fighting battles on too many fronts. “You think it’s Grayson?” she asks.
“Could be.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “Or one of the guys trying to earn points with management. Hell, maybe a reporter’s paying someone off. Doesn’t matter who. It’s personal now.”
Sage crosses her arms, lips pressing together. “You think this is about revenge.”
I shake my head. “No. It’s about control.” I glance back at the screen. “They don’t like that we stopped playing their game.”
For a beat, neither of us speaks. The morning light shifts, spilling across the countertop where her phone still buzzes, relentless. Every ping feels like a reminder — the world doesn’t stop just because we’re tired of fighting.
And I realize something else: this isn’t just her battle anymore. Whoever’s leaking information, they’re coming for both of us.
The rink is empty when I get there. It’s still early enough that the parking lot’s half-frozen and the morning fog clings to the boards, softening the edges of the place that’s been my second home for years. The kind of silence I used to crave. Now, it just feels wrong.
I push through the side entrance, the one the equipment staff leaves unlocked for off-hours training. The smell hits me first—cold air, disinfectant, faint trace of sweat and tape. It’s muscle memory, the way my hands find the locker, the stretch of laces between my fingers. I shouldn’t even be here. Technically, suspended players aren’t supposed to use team facilities. But nobody’s going to stop me. Not today.
I need to see it. Feel it. The ice has always been where I think best, where the noise fades and the truth gets clearer.
I skate hard laps until my legs burn, until the ache replaces everything else. Then I slow, breathing hard, listening to the echo of my blades in the empty arena.Thisis what they took from me — not just the games, but the rhythm. The purpose.
After another few minutes, I glide to a stop, leaning against the boards to catch my breath. My phone buzzes from the bench. I grab it, half expecting another headline, another leak. Instead, it’s a message from Coach:Stay sharp. We’re reviewing your reinstatement next week.
A flicker of something like hope stirs in my chest—but it dies quick. Because just down the hall, I hear laughter.
Familiar laughter.
Trevor Stein’s voice carries, that smug, nasal tone impossible to miss. “Guess not everyone can keep their focus when they’ve got celebrity chefs to impress.” A second voice—some local beat reporter, I think—laughs along.
I stand frozen for half a second, heart thudding. I know I shouldn’t move, shouldn’t give him what he wants. But my feet carry me toward the hallway anyway, slow and steady.
Their voices fade when I round the corner, but I catch the tail end of it—Trevor smirking, leaning against the wall, phone in hand. He meets my eyes, doesn’t even flinch. “Hey, Cap. Didn’t know you were allowed in here.”
I don’t answer. I just stare until the grin slips off his face. Until he shifts, suddenly too casual, pretending he’s not the kind of guy who’d sell out a teammate for a headline.
He says something under his breath as he walks away. I don’t catch the words, but the tone says enough.
The back of my neck burns. I tighten my grip on my phone, jaw locked. Maybe it’s not proof. But I’ve been in enough locker rooms to recognize a rat when I see one.
By the time I make it back to the apartment, the sun’s higher, throwing sharp light through the windows. Sage sits at the kitchen table with her laptop open, face lit by the glow of the screen. She’s typing fast, focused, a mug of untouched coffee beside her.
I toss my keys onto the counter. “You’re working already?”
“Drafting a post.” Her voice is calm, clipped. Controlled. “Claire called. She says the league’s monitoring everything now—sponsors too.”
