I stop halfway to her, frowning. “So she wants you to hide?”
Sage shakes her head. “No. She wants me to play nice. Stay quiet, let it fade.” She looks up then, meeting my gaze. “But I’m not doing that again.”
There’s a steel edge in her voice, one I’ve only ever heard when she’s in a kitchen—when something’s gone wrong and she’s the only one who knows how to fix it. “If they’re going to use my name,” she says, “they’ll usemywords.”
I lean against the counter, watching her fingers hover over the keyboard. “What are you writing?”
She hesitates for a beat, then turns the screen toward me. It’s short, direct—Sage through and through.‘I’ve worked too hard to be reduced to rumors. I believe in owning your story. Mine is about food, health, and empowerment. That’s where my focus stays.’Below it, a simple photo of her in her chef whites, no makeup, eyes steady on the camera.
“It’s good,” I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “It’s…you.”
Her lips twitch in something like a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Claire’s going to hate it.”
“She’ll live.” I step closer, placing a hand on the back of her chair. “You sure about this?”
“I have to be.” She hits post before I can say another word.
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the fridge. Then the notifications start. Likes, shares, comments—rolling in fast. I see the first few before she closes the tab. Some supportive. Most not.
She leans back, exhaling through her nose. “Well,” she murmurs, “that’s done.”
I watch her for a long moment, pride and worry warring in my chest. She looks strong. Composed. But I know what it costs her to be that way.
And as her phone buzzes again, a new wave of attention already building, I can’t shake the thought—sometimes courage looks a lot like stepping straight into the fire.
By mid-afternoon, the world’s decided what it thinks of Sage’s post. Half the comments praise her for “class andcomposure.” The rest tear her apart. Opportunist. Drama magnet. One even calls herthe Surge’s Yoko Ono.
She’s sitting beside me on the couch, scrolling through the noise like she’s immune, but I can see the tension in her jaw. Her shoulders rise and fall with every new notification. Every word lands, even if she won’t admit it.
The phone rings again. Sage glances at the screen, exhales, and answers. “Hey, Claire.”
Before she can switch it off speaker, Claire’s voice cuts through the room—sharp, controlled, all business. “You made your point, Sage, but you need to step back now.”
She must know I’m here; her tone shifts slightly, deliberate. “The league’s PR team is watching the engagement metrics, and so are Leo’s sponsors. Any misstep could make things worse for both of you.”
Sage meets my eyes, then sets the phone on speaker anyway. “I’m not deleting it,” she says, tone cool and final.
There’s a pause—a faint sigh, static across the line. “Then at least stay offline tonight,” Claire replies, softer now. “Let this settle before anyone fans the flames.”
The call ends with a polite click. Sage exhales, dropping the phone onto the coffee table. “She means well,” she says quietly. “But I’m not playing dead just because people are uncomfortable.”
I study her profile—the calm surface, the storm underneath. She doesn’t flinch when the comments light up again. I wish I could shield her from it, but I know that’s not what she wants from me. She doesn’t need protection. She needs partnership.
“You’re stronger than they deserve,” I say finally.
She glances at me, a wry smile ghosting across her lips. “You say that like you’re not in the same fire.”
I don’t answer right away. My phone’s been lighting up too—players, reporters, even Coach. But when her post started trending, I knew it wasn’t my story anymore. It’sours.
Before I can reply, her phone buzzes again. Another alert. Her hand moves to grab it, but I see the look on her face before she even reads the words. Confusion, then dread.
“Leo,” she whispers, voice thin. “He’s live.”
I take the phone from her, my stomach already turning. The screen shows Grayson’s smirking face on a livestream, mic in hand, studio lights glinting off his slicked-back hair.
“Guess everyone’s got a recipe for success,” he says into the camera, smile lazy and poisonous. “Some just steal the ingredients.”
The sound of his voice hits me like a punch to the chest. Sage goes still beside me, her hand frozen midair.
