Me: For what?
She replies almost instantly.
Bayleigh: Lincoln told me about the locker room. Players talk, and things get around the league. You know that. Also hope it’s okay I text. I maybe sweet talked your brother into letting me thank you myself.
I type slowly. Lying through my teeth with every word.
Me: Don’t worry about it. No one gets to talk shit about my brother. Not even Milton, and he’s our best friend.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Bayleigh: That makes you a good man, Korbin.
My pulse stutters.
I lock the phone before I do something stupid. Before I say something I can’t take back. Before I admit to her or to myself that this isn’t just adrenaline anymore.
I shove the device face down into the pillows and rake both hands through my hair.
“Get it together,” I breathe. “She’s not yours.”
The quiet house doesn’t answer.
Neither does the part of me that knows—that hates—that she could be.
And that’s the problem.
31
Bayleigh
I standin front of the rink. Ready to walk in and face the day. I know it’s going to be rough. I can do this. Shoulders back. Head held high. I’ve done nothing wrong.
Each step I take builds my confidence just a little more. Taking hold of the door, I pull it open, taking a deep breath before entering the lion’s den. I’m not an idiot. I know people are going to talk. But if I give in and act as if what I did was wrong, then I’m no better than them.
Normally, I don’t come into the rink every day, even though I have an office here. Most of my work can be done from home. But today I need to take pictures of some of the players during practice, in the weight room, and doing their PT.
As I make my way down the hallway, I can see some of the staff glancing my way before leaning in and whispering. Some are even laughing as they nod their heads toward me.
Don’t show any emotion, Bayleigh. They don’t need to know that their judgment is hurting you.
The tension in the room is sharp. Suffocating. But, I keep my shoulders straight, head forward, chin level, and my stepsmeasured. Pretending to have composure that doesn’t come easy when your pulse is pounding.
The worst part?
I knew it would be like this. No matter how much I tried to lie to myself and say it wouldn’t be.
Because the moment I saw the photos on the gossip pages—my face turned up toward Lincoln Brooks like he was the only solid thing in the world—it was over.
Privacy gone. Reputation twisted into something cheap and consumable. Not because we were on a date. But because of who our brothers are. Korbin Brooks and Benton Lennox. Sworn enemies on rival teams.
I’m halfway down the hallway to my office when one of the rookies cuts me off, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe like he’s settling in for entertainment.
“Is it true?” he asks, eyes too bright, looking me right in the face, and talking slowly. He knows who I am. Who my brother is. That I’m deaf. “You and Brooks’ brother?”
I want to say a thousand things. That people are more than rumors. That my personal life isn’t a sport to bet on, or any of his concern.
But I don’t. He doesn’t know sign language and wouldn’t understand a word I said. And there’s no way I’m speaking. Imagine how the tabloids would run with that. Everyone would know how bad I sound when I talk.
