Chapter Twenty-Nine
Aylcia
Idon’t realize I’m shaking until the clipboard slips a fraction in my hand. Just a tiny tremor, easy to hide, but I feel it all the way up to my shoulders. It is what happens when you hold yourself together for too long. Every muscle starts a quiet rebellion under your skin. I keep my steps measured as I leave the rink, but inside, I’m still vibrating from the moment Kyle looked at me.
By the time I get to the elevator, my smile feels like it’s stapled to my face.
“Great set of drills today,” one of the media interns says, still buzzing as we move down the hall. “Did you see the way Kyle moved out there? The cameras ate it up.”
My hand tightens around my clipboard. Yeah. I saw the way his timing was half a step behind. I saw the hurt he tried and failed to hide. I saw all of it, and I ignored it because acknowledging what we’re both carrying doesn’t help either of us. It just makes it real.
“I’ll review the footage this afternoon,” I say,voice smooth and unbothered. “We’ll pull clips for socials. Focus on the foundation spots, charity mentions, anything that looks supportive and team focused.”
“Got it. Oh, and that moment when you walked in? The camera caught him looking right at you. It’s like…” They catch themselves, cheeks flushing. “Sorry, that was unprofessional.”
“It’s fine. Just send me the time codes.”
The elevator doors open with a soft ding, and I step inside, letting the doors close between me and any more questions I’m not stable enough to answer. My reflection ghosts across the metal. Clean bun. Neutral lipstick. The exact version of myself I chose to be. No trace of the woman who stood at the edge of the rink and felt her heart climb into her throat because one look from Kyle Hendrix told her more than any headline ever could. He looked cracked around the edges in a way I recognize because I’m carrying the same fault lines.
The elevator climbs. My stomach does not.
The PR floor is controlled chaos when I step out. All the activity should ground me, but everything under my ribs is still humming like a live wire.
“Does anyone know if we have the updated pull quote for the foundation newsletter? They want to lead with the gala again,” someone calls from the bullpen.
Of course, they do. The world doesn’t stop moving because I feel like the ground has fallen out from beneath my feet. Phone calls and emails need to beanswered. I need to keep moving, no matter how much it hurts.
“Check your email,” I answer instinctively, already moving toward my office. “Subject lineGala Recap–Donor Safe. Use the second paragraph, not the first.”
“Got it, thanks!”
Another voice catches me just before I can shut my door. “Hey, Alycia? The league reposted the dance video again. Engagement is through the roof. They want us to lean into the ‘perfect couple’ angle for the next week or so.”
My vision closes in on itself. That bone-deep grief I've been fighting desperately to keep at bay lurks in the shadows once again. I try to dress it up as a strategy, but no matter how hard I try, it hits deep under the breastbone, where breathing becomes something you have to remember how to do. Perfect couple. Push the angle. Pretend harder. It’s astonishing how quickly a heart can ache, and a face can stay perfectly blank of emotion.
“The league can want whatever it likes,” I say, turning just enough to meet the social coordinator’s eyes. “We’ll lean into what’s sustainable. I’ll send revised language.”
“You’re a lifesaver.”
I close my office door before anyone else can ask me to package my mistakes as strategy.
The fluorescent lighting feels harsher than it did this morning. It always does when I’m tired: too white, too flat, highlighting every paper out of place, every smudge on my screen, every tiny reminder that theworld keeps moving no matter how hard you want it to stop.
I drop into my chair and wake up my computer. The monitor blinks to life with email notifications flooding the corner of the screen, alerts popping up from every platform, the Timberwolves’ social dashboard a wall of blue and white, and the photo the league keeps reposting of my face pressed against Kyle’s shoulder pinned to the top of the page.
My heart folds in on itself as I click it open, even though I know I shouldn’t. We are in the middle of the dance floor. My hand rests on his chest, his fingers laced with mine. We look happy in the photo. Not staged-happy or PR-happy. Happy in a way that slips out when you forget anyone is watching. There’s an ease in my posture I don’t recognize. A quiet warmth in my smile that doesn’t belong to the woman who’s built her life on being untouchable. Kyle is looking at me like the rest of the room has fallen away, and he is fine staying right there, in that small slice of time.
This is the version of us the world saw. The one the board praised for our “authentic connection.” Millions of hearts and crying emojis in the comments. Paragraphs about soulmates and fate from people who don’t know either of us. I should close the photo, but I don’t.
All I can think about is that I left him holding the truth while I handed him a lie and called it survival. I did this to us. I tightened every boundary until neither of us had room to breathe. I chose stability over the way he made me feel seen in a way no one ever has. I'm theone who told him it couldn’t be real, like the words alone could keep me safe from the consequences of wanting someone who could break me open with a single look.
Staring at the softness in his eyes and the emotion I can’t deny in mine, all I feel is loss twisting through my ribs. I walked away from a moment that felt more real than anything I’ve allowed myself in years. I chose control over possibility, and it’s still cutting me. I’m mourning something I never let myself have.
I force my hands back to the keyboard, open the spreadsheet for media hits, and start checking off outlets that covered our “charity partner of the year” nod. Flag any mention that leans too hard into the fake-dating angle. Our fairy-tale romance is trending. Again.
My body moves on autopilot. Identify the risk. Contain the narrative. Protect the brand. Protect everyone but yourself. A knock hits the doorframe, soft but sharp in the quiet. I blink away the shine in my eyes and sit up straighter, pulling composure over myself like a blazer two sizes too small.
“Alycia?” Janine leans in, tablet in hand. “Do you have a minute?”
