"Then we deal with that when it happens. But right now, you need to get somewhere safe without reporters camped outside." Her voice softens. "You can stay at my place for as long as you need."
The offer cracks something open in my chest. Tears spill from my eyes, and I wipe them with the back of my hand.
I've spent so much of my life trying to prove I don't need help that asking for it feels like failure. But standing here in my apartment-turned-prison, watching my best friend pack my life into boxes because reporters are hunting me like prey, I realize independence is a luxury I can't afford right now.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"Thank me by moving your ass. We've got ten minutes before I start throwing your stuff in garbage bags."
We pack in silence, broken only by the occasional shout from the hallway. Sloane handles the reporters each time they knock.
Her responses are colorful, creative, and would probably constitute threats if they knew her well enough to take them seriously. By the time we're ready to leave, she's threatened legal action three times, promised bodily harm twice, and suggested one particularly persistent reporter do something anatomically improbable.
"Ready?" she asks, hand on the doorknob.
I hoist my laptop bag over my shoulder, gripping my suitcase handle.
"As I'll ever be."
She opens the door, and cameras flash immediately. Microphones thrust forward. Questions designed to provoke a reaction come from all directions, overlapping and aggressive.
"Dr. Chandler, did you falsify data?"
"How long have you been sleeping with Declan Hawthorne?"
"Does your brother know about your relationship?"
"Are you involved with other players?"
Sloane becomes a bulldozer, physically pushing through the crowd while keeping herself between me and the cameras.
"Move. Now. Or I swear I'll start throwing hands." We shove our way through the reporters, Sloane leading the way, until we get to her car. She puts my suitcase in the trunk while I collapse in the passenger seat, my heart hammering so hard I feel sick.
She doesn't try to make conversation as she drives, just turns on music loud enough to drown out thought and drives with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for emergencies. Which, I suppose, this is.
Sloane drives through many intersections until we lose the reporters, then she continues to her house. By the time we pull into her building's parking garage and turns off the ignition, the only sounds I hear are my ragged breathing and the engine ticking as it cools.
"Come on," she says gently.
I follow her upstairs, moving through the motions without processing them. I feel displaced, like I'm watching my career burn from someone else's couch.
She deposits my suitcase in her bedroom, then points me toward the bathroom. When I emerge, she's got tea brewing and her laptop open.
"I've been monitoring the news," she says without preamble. "It's bad, babe. The video is everywhere. Every sports blog, gossip site, even some mainstream news outlets are picking it up."
"I know."
"Have you issued a statement? Anything to defend yourself?"
I sink onto her couch, pulling a throw blanket around my shoulders even though I'm not cold.
"With what evidence? My word against footage that looks real enough to convince millions of people? I can't fight this. Not without Declan," I whimper.
"He still hasn't called?"
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
"That bastard." Her voice is low, dangerous. "When I see Declan Hawthorne, I'm going to personally castrate him with a rusty spoon after I key his Mercedes. Maybe set his penthouse on fire."
