Enough.
If they want to protect my career, then I’ll protect it myself.
I grab my phone.
Two days later, I’m sitting in a conference room at league headquarters.
Neutral walls. Glass table. Two representatives across from me. One older man with a silver tie and sharp eyes, one woman in her forties with a tablet open in front of her.
They’re polite.
Measured.
Careful.
“Miss Bronwyn,” the woman begins, “we understand you requested this meeting regarding the conflict of interest concern.”
“Yes,” I reply evenly.
My voice doesn’t shake.
My posture is straight.
I am composed.
“From our understanding,” the man says, “you were involved romantically with one of the team’s primary players while serving as an intern under the Rebels’ psychological department.”
“Yes.”
“And you understand why that raises ethical concerns.”
“I do.”
Silence lingers.
I take a breath.
“But I also understand professional boundaries,” I continue. “And I am capable of maintaining them.”
They exchange a glance.
“With respect,” the woman says gently, “your personal involvement complicates perception.”
“Perception,” I repeat calmly, “is not the same as performance.”
That gets their attention.
“I have documented performance metrics from the past several weeks,” I say, sliding a folder across the table. “Player engagement increased. Voluntary session attendance increased. On-field behavioral incidents decreased.”
The man flips through the pages.
“You’re referencing Wilder Calloway’s performance?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“His ERA dropped during that stretch,” the woman notes.
“Yes.”
