“Whatever comes next,” she whispers, voice soft but sure, “we face it together.”
For the first time in too long, I believe her. I press a kiss to her hair and close my eyes, letting the quiet settle around us like armor.
Until my phone buzzes on the table. Once. Twice.
The spell breaks. I glance at the screen, heart kicking when I see the name:Anya Lopez.
I think I just found something that can fix everything for you two. Call me.
Hope flickers sharp and bright—and right behind it, the familiar edge of danger.
Chapter 33
Momentum Swing
Sage
Morning light slipsthrough the blinds, soft and gold, painting stripes across the kitchen table. The world outside feels deceptively calm, but my pulse is anything but. My coffee’s gone cold beside me, ignored as I scroll through Anya Lopez’s article on my phone for the second—no, third—time.
Inside the Locker Room Leaks: What the Surge Never Saw Coming.
Even the headline feels like a jolt to the system. Every line that follows lands harder. Anya didn’t hold back—screenshots, quotes, timestamps, the receipts people always demand but never expect to actually see. She lays it all out: the leak from inside the Surge, the coordination with Grayson’s PR team, the deliberate smear campaigns. Trevor’s name is right there, printed in bold.
My stomach twists as I scroll past the section about Leo—the private training details, the whispers about his suspension. The words that have haunted both of us for weeks. Anya connects every breadcrumb back to one source. Every rumor, every quote,every story that turned Leo into a villain came from the same place.
Trevor. And Grayson.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to keep reading. The comments section is already a wildfire—half outrage, half disbelief. Fans who once worshiped Grayson are suddenly questioning everything. People are angry, but for once, not at Leo. Not at me.
The sound of footsteps pulls my attention from the screen. Leo’s in sweats and a T-shirt, hair still damp from a shower, jaw set like he hasn’t decided if this is relief or another kind of storm.
“Did you see it?” I ask quietly.
He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah.” He grabs a mug, fills it halfway, then leans against the counter beside me. His phone is face down, but I can tell from the tension in his shoulders he’s been scrolling too. “They’ll spin it,” he mutters. “They always do.”
I set my phone down and reach out, laying a hand between his shoulder blades. The muscle there’s tight, coiled. “Maybe,” I say, my voice steady even if I don’t feel it. “But this time, the truth came from someone else’s mouth, not ours. That matters.”
He doesn’t answer, just exhales slowly, staring out the window like he’s trying to see tomorrow from here. His reflection in the glass looks older somehow—worn, but not broken. There’s something different in his eyes, too. Not just anger. Something close to hope.
The coffee maker clicks off behind us, a final little hiss of steam. I glance down at my phone again, at the screen that’s already refreshing with new headlines and retweets.Grayson caught feeding media.Surge locker room mole exposed.Redemption story incoming?
For the first time in a long time, the noise doesn’t feel like fire. It feels like air. Like space opening up where something new can finally grow.
By midmorning, the story’s everywhere. Every sports network, every trending page, every comment thread. The same people who dissected Leo’s career like vultures are suddenly dissecting Grayson’s downfall instead. It’s almost surreal.
I scroll through one last article and finally set my phone down, trying to let my brain catch up with the world. The apartment hums with quiet—the kind that feels heavy, waiting. Leo’s sitting across from me at the table, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.
“They’re actually turning on him,” I say softly. “His sponsors, the PR firm—none of them have made statements. It’s been hours.”
Leo doesn’t look up right away. His fingers drum against his thigh, slow and restless. “Doesn’t mean it’s over,” he mutters. “Guys like him always find a way to come out clean.”
He says it like it’s a fact, but his voice betrays the smallest thread of disbelief. Hope, maybe, fighting its way back through the cracks.
I stand and walk behind him, sliding my hands over his shoulders. The muscles there are still taut, but the edges have softened. He leans forward slightly, a small surrender that tells me the fight’s not eating him alive—for once.
“They can spin all they want,” I whisper near his ear. “But the truth is louder now.”
He lets out a long breath and covers one of my hands with his, anchoring it there. “You really believe that?”
