And there’s our photo. The one from yesterday morning. Chloe and me in front of the fireplace, smiling like lovesick fools.
My blood turns to ice as I skim the article. Sources close to Chloe. The contract. The staged breakup that’s supposed to happen tonight. The accusations about Ashley. The convenient timing. Every detail we thought was private, now exposed for the world to see and judge.
The plan I had—the beautiful, simple plan where we just mutually agree to tear up the breakup clause and make this real—shatters like glass.
Because it’s not private anymore.
Is their romance real, or is this hockey’s latest publicity stunt? You be the judge.
The article ends there. Short. Devastating. Leaving just enough unsaid to let readers fill in the blanks with their worst assumptions.
And the comments below—I shouldn’t read them, but I do—are exactly what you’d expect:
“I KNEW something was off about them.”
“Poor Chloe, he’s using her.”
“Typical athlete behavior.”
“Wait, they’re supposed to break up tonight? This is going to be messy.”
“If there’s a contract requiring a breakup, how was ANY of it real?”
That last one hits the hardest. Because it’s the question I’m asking myself. How do you prove something became real when it started fake? How do you convince anyone—including maybe Chloe herself—that feelings evolved when there’s a contract saying it was supposed to end tonight anyway?
The section I was planning to ignore. The section I thought we could just void because no one knew it existed.
Except now everyone knows.
My phone rings. Rick.
I answer, my voice coming out rougher than intended. “I saw it.”
“Finally. I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour.”
“I’m at awedding.The phone was on Do Not Disturb, thank you.”
“Well, it’s a disaster. The article dropped three hours ago, and it’s everywhere. Sports media picked it up, social media is having a field day, the team management has called twice, asking for an explanation.” He’s talking fast, the way he does when he’s in crisis-management mode. “We need to get ahead of this.”
“Get ahead of it how? The contract is exposed. Jennifer has sources.”
“Sources that ‘suggest’ a contract. That’s vague. We can claim?—”
“We’re gonna come clean, Rick. Chloe and I, we don’t want to do this.”
The line goes quiet for a long time. “You can’t do that, Brody.”
Something in his voice makes my stomach drop. “Why not? It’s already out there. People already know.”
“People don’t know anything. So long as you make this convincing.” His voice is steady, solid, leaving no room to argue.
“Rick, I don’t?—”
“You both signed an NDA. And I got off the phone ten minutes ago with the NHL. They don’t want any part of this coming back to them. If you guys come clean, they won’t just null the contract—they’ll come after you both for breach of contract. We’re talking serious legal action against you both.”
My head is spinning, like I took a hard hit.
I drag a hand through my hair. “So what are you saying?”
