Julia’s pen stops clicking. In the back, the owner’s jaw hardens until I can feel the pressure in my own molars. Offstage, Riley’s shoulders square another half inch. It’s enough to make the lights feel less like interrogation and more like daylight.
I plant my hands on either side of the mic stand to keep from going for the throttle the way I’m built to. The hive in my ribsquiets. The room, for two seconds, forgets what question it was going to throw next.
Silence breaks like glass. Hands shoot up; voices overlap; a moderator tries to impose order and gets trampled by momentum.
“Sponsors are reviewing ad buys—comment?”
“Code of Conduct, Section Twelve—are you in violation?”
“Did Ms. Lane treat your injury while you were romantically involved?”
“Who signed off on her travel?”
I let the noise crest and pick the cleanest line through it. “One at a time,” I say, the way you tell a bench full of egos we’re still a team. “Sponsors first. They’re free to review anything. I’m also free to say this: I won’t be part of any campaign that makes a woman collateral.” A murmur. I don’t let it swell. “Next—Code of Conduct. Section Twelve prohibits staff-player relationships that create conflicts in supervision and evaluation. Riley didn’t supervise or evaluate me. Rehab oversight came from an independent physician appointed by the league. Logs are available for audit.”
A reporter two rows back lowers his camera an inch, surprised at the specificity. I keep going.
“Did she treat you while involved?” someone calls.
“I was under her care as a patient before our relationship resumed,” I say. “Once there was potential for conflict, we followed protocol. Independent oversight. I complied with every recommendation, and where there was a gray area, we chose distance. That’s on record.”
The moderator blinks at his clipboard like he didn’t expect me to have receipts. Julia finally moves—slides a single sheet closer with bullet points we built last night. I don’t look down. Knowing I can if I need to is enough.
“What about the optics?” a woman near the aisle asks, pen poised. “Staff are talking about favoritism.”
I nod like it’s the fair question it is. “Optics aren’t facts,” I say. “Facts are my time-on-ice split and the transparent rehab schedule Riley wrote with the medical team months before any of this. If anyone wants to argue my line changes, we can do it with tape, not rumor.” I pause. “As for staff: no one should be harassed because of proximity to me. If you’ve filmed or followed a trainer in a hallway this week, I suggest you look at your own code of conduct.”
That lands harder than I meant it to. Fine. It should.
“Jason—if the league finds a violation, will you accept discipline?”
“I’ll accept any consequence that’s mine,” I say. “I won’t accept Riley being used as a shield for other people’s discomfort. Her work stands on its own. Protecting her ability to do it is non-negotiable.” I glance to the wing. She’s still there—jaw set, eyes steady. It threads iron through my spine.
A guy in a navy blazer—sponsor pin glittering—leans toward the aisle mic. “Our brand cannot be associated with impropriety.” He tries to make impropriety sound like a slur.
“Then associate with integrity,” I say. “Ask for the audit. Read the logs. Call the independent. If you want a clean line: no preferential treatment. No special access. And if you’re asking whether I love a woman who is excellent at her job—yes. Put your brand on that.”
Clicks. A low oath from somewhere right of center. Julia’s pen resumes a slow, satisfied tick. The room recalibrates around the idea that I am not going to flinch.
“Last one for now,” the moderator says, sensing control again. “Given the attention, do you think Ms. Lane can continue in her role without distraction?”
“Yes,” I say, before he finishes. “If you let her. If you stop turning her hallway into a gauntlet. If you treat her like the professional she’s always been.” I lean in, let the mic carry it. “The distraction isn’t her. It’s the circus.”
Offstage, Riley’s fist unclenches. Mine does, too. For a full breath, the camera hum blends into something that almost feels like quiet ice.
In the back row, Nolan’s jaw goes iron. I can feel it from the dais the way you feel a cross-check you’re about to take and decide to skate through anyway. Julia slides a note across the edge of the podium with two words in a tight, controlled hand:Stick to script.
I look at the note. I look at the room. I look at Riley—offstage, steady as a blue line.
“No,” I say—not into the mic, into the part of me that still thinks pleasing men in suits keeps anyone safe. I fold the note once and set it beside the water bottle. My fingers stop shaking.
A reporter opens his mouth for another bite. I get there first.
“You want clarity,” I say. “Here it is. If protecting Riley means I sit, I sit. She keeps her job.”
The sound that rolls through the room isn’t one thing. Gasps. A dropped camera thunk. An oh from the moderator he doesn’t catch with his hand in time. Julia freezes half a second and then starts writing faster, recalculating trajectories like a goalie tracking a puck through traffic.
I let the quiet after do work. Make sure the words sink in where they’re supposed to. Take me. Leave her.
