“We had to increase security for today’s session,” she said. Her voice carrying the factual,this-is-the-situation-and-we’re-managing-itregister that she deployed when the subject matter had transitioned from coaching to logistics. “The volume of Omega supporters requesting access to your competition session has exceeded the venue’s standard allocation. The arena’s ticketing office reported that your event’s attendance is tracking at one hundred and twelve percent of seated capacity, which means standing-room passes were issued and those sold out within the hour.”
I stared at her.
“Huh?” The syllable was eloquent in its inadequacy. “Really?”
She nodded. The motion carrying the specific,I-know-more-than-I’m-telling-but-here’s-the-relevant-portionrestraint of a coach who managed information the way she managed training loads: in calibrated doses, delivered at the optimal moment for maximum impact without overwhelming the recipient’s capacity to process.
“Someone appears to have leaked a detailed account of your hospitalization.”
The sentence landed in the preparation room’s hairspray-thick air with the quiet, devastating weight of a stone dropped into still water. Foxwood’s voice was measured. Clinical. The specific, delivering-difficult-information register that she employed when the content required the recipient to be seated, which I was, which was fortunate, because the implications of the sentence were already generating a vertigo that my inner ear was struggling to counterbalance.
“There’s a blog post trending,” she continued. “Published approximately fourteen hours ago. Framed as exclusive information. The post details your recovery period—specifically, the assertion that you were isolated during your hospital stay because access to your room was deliberately restricted. That Garrison Hale’s pack blocked visitation from outside parties. That you spent months recovering alone, without pack support, without the Alphas who were reportedly trying to reach you.”
She paused. Let the information settle.
“Two former nurses from the rehabilitation facility have provided on-record statements corroborating the account. They’ve described your recovery in detail—the days spent alone, the absence of visitors, the attempts by external parties to deliver correspondence that were intercepted before reaching you. The post specifically references handwritten letters.”
No fucking way.
I gawked. The expression was total—jaw descending, eyes widening, the full-facial,the-information-has-exceeded-my-processing-architectureconfiguration of a woman who had just been told that the most private, most painful, most carefully guarded chapter of her life was now trending on the internet with corroborating witness testimony and a narrativestructure that suggested the author understood the story from the inside rather than the surface.
“How much was leaked?”
Foxwood sighed. The sound carrying the measured,more-than-you’d-likeweight of a coach who had read the blog post in its entirety and whose summary was going to be significantly shorter than the source material.
“The post is comprehensive. The author appears to have access to details that exceed what standard investigative journalism could produce—specific dates, room numbers, shift schedules. The writing style is…personal. Passionate. The kind of prose that suggests emotional investment in the subject rather than professional detachment.”
Candy.
The name detonated in my awareness with the specific,I-should-have-known, exasperated, devastating certainty of a woman who had just identified the source of a security breach and who recognized the perpetrator’s methodology because she’d been witnessing it for years. Candice Hollister Holmes. My best friend. My roommate. The woman who processed emotional injustice the way she processed athletic challenges—with relentless, maximum-effort, refuse-to-accept-the-status-quo determination—and whowrote blogs.
She writes BLOGS. The famous ones. The ones with the anonymous bylines and the devoted followings and the specific, viral, hits-different-because-the-author-clearly-KNOWS-the-subject authenticity that distinguished Candy’s writing from standard media coverage. She’d built a readership during her gymnastics circuit years by publishing anonymously about the sport’s institutional dysfunction, and the blog had developed a reputation for insider accuracy and emotional honesty that mainstream outlets couldn’t replicate because mainstream outlets weren’tstaffed by gymnasts who’d lived inside the machine they were critiquing.
And she turned those skills on MY story. Without telling me. Because telling me would have meant asking for permission, and asking for permission would have risked receiving a no, and Candy Hollister Holmes does not accept nos when she believes the truth deserves to be told.
I cursed.
“Fuck.Candy.”
Foxwood tilted her head. “What about candy?”
“No—my best friend. Her nickname is Candy. She’s…she’s one of those anonymous bloggers. The kind whose posts go viral because she writes from lived experience rather than research, and the audience canfeelthe difference.” I pressed my fingers against my temples. “The nurses knew about the letters. Candy knew about the letters because I told her about the letters. And Candy has the writing skills, the platform, and the specific, zero-fucks-given,the-world-needs-to-know-thismoral conviction that would produce exactly the kind of blog post you’re describing.”
She went viral. My best friend weaponized our private conversations into a trending exposé on the morning of my first Olympic performance, and the internet is apparently responding with the collective outrage that the story deserves and that I’ve been too close to it to generate on my own.
I’m going to kill her.
And then I’m going to thank her.
In that order.
Foxwood reached behind her.
Produced a box from the preparation room’s counter—small, approximately the dimensions of a shoebox, wrappedin brown paper that carried the generic, institutional look of something that had been processed through a security checkpoint. The paper was slightly creased. A scanning sticker—the kind applied by the Olympic venue’s mail-screening team—was affixed to the upper corner, its barcode confirming that the contents had been examined and cleared.
“This was supposed to be given to you,” Foxwood said. Her voice had shifted—the stern, coaching-authority register giving way to something softer, quieter, carrying the specific,I-am-delivering-this-with-care-because-I-know-what’s-insidetenderness that emerged from her rarely and that I’d come to recognize as the woman beneath the coach. “I put it through security myself, as a precaution. They confirmed it’s just paper inside. No hazards.”
I accepted the box.
