“Privately.”
One of the women beside her clocks the exchange with the professional interest of someone who writes sports gossip for aliving. I recognize her now, Carla Mendez, contributor for three different platforms. Her presence tonight is either terrible luck or something Lena engineered. I’m going with engineered. Lena never leaves anything to chance when she can arrange it instead.
“I’m in the middle of a conversation,” Lena says pleasantly.
“I can see that.” I look at Carla, who has the grace to appear mildly uncomfortable. “Five minutes, Lena. Then you can get back to whatever this is.”
Something flickers in her expression. She doesn’t like being managed in front of people, and she knows I know it. We dated for fourteen months, and I have the complete manual.
“Sure,” she says. The smile doesn’t waver. “Excuse me for a minute.”
Lena follows me to a quieter corner near the silent auction tables. The items sit in their display frames under soft lighting—a signed jersey, a resort weekend, and playoff tickets. I stop in front of the jersey display and turn around.
Lena crosses her arms. The calculated warmth from sixty seconds ago has evaporated. This is the version of her that few people see.
“I know why you’re upset about the photos,” she says before I can open my mouth.
“The photos I’m upset about are the ones taken outside Ink District Studio. The ones ending up on three separate sports blogs with captions implying a scandal. Those photos.”
“I don’t control sports blogs.”
“No, but you fed them the content.” I keep my voice level. “Security camera footage from a private business, Lena. Nobody stumbles across something like that.”
“I genuinely don’t know what you’re—”
“Stop.” The word comes out quietly but final. “I’m not here to fight. I’m not here to make a scene. I’m asking you to tell me the truth, and I’m asking once.”
She looks at me for a long moment. Then something shifts in her face, not guilt exactly, more the particular exhaustion of someone who has been running a story and grown tired of the upkeep.
“I knew someone who worked near the studio,” she says finally. “They noticed you going in and out. Late at night. Repeatedly.”
“And you had them photograph it.”
“I had them share what they saw.” Her chin lifts. “She has a Ring camera. On a public street. Nothing illegal about it.”
“Not illegal,” I agree. “Not accidental either. You sent those images to the blogs with framing designed to look like favoritism. You made it look like the coach’s daughter was being used for access.” I let the silence hold for a beat. “You made it look like her studio was a cover for something.”
“That’s one interpretation.”
“It’s theonly interpretation, and you wrote it.”
She unfolds her arms and sets her champagne on the nearest auction table with more care than the gesture deserves. “You moved on fast. I thought you needed time after us. You always said you needed time.”
“I needed time from the relationship. Not from living.”
“She’s his daughter.”
“I’m aware of who she is.”
“The entire Cougars organization will eventually know what you’ve been doing. Your contract negotiations are in three months. Coach Bishop already watches you like—”
“Lena.” I wait until she stops. “What you did hurt was someone who had nothing to do with you and me. She wasn’t in our relationship. She wasn’t the reason it ended.”
“She’s the reason you stopped answering my messages.”
“I stopped answering your messages because we broke up,” I say it plainly, without heat. “Nine months ago. Every messageafter that was you trying to maintain a connection I wasn’t maintaining. The photos, the captions, the throwback post, none of that is grief. All of it is leverage.”
“I loved you.”
