“So, uh.” He drops his arm. “Can I tell you something?”
My hands freeze on his shoulder. “What?”
“It’s just—okay, look.” He turns to face me, and his expression is uncharacteristically serious. “It’s really not my business, and I’m not here to yuck on someone’s yum, but I just thought you should, uh, know.”
My stomach bottoms out. “Spit it out, Logan.”
“There’s some stuff going around. About you and Bish.”
No, no, no, no.
The blood drains from my face. “What kind of stuff?”
“Reed’s been running his mouth. He says he saw you two at the hotel in Minneapolis late at night. He also claims you’ve hooked up here in the training room.” Logan scratches the back of his neck, looking genuinely uncomfortable. “I don’t know if it’s true, and I don’t care if it is—Zay’s a good dude, and you’re cool; whatever makes people happy, you know? But I figured you’d want to know before it gets to the wrong people.”
I’m going to be sick. I’m actually going to throw up right here in the training room.
“How many people have heard this?”
“I mean...” Logan winces. “A lot? Reed’s not exactly subtle. He was telling anyone who’d listen in the locker room this morning.”
Grayson. Of course it’s Grayson. The guy I rejected, the one with the miraculous disappearing hip injury, the guy who told me I had a “type” and that he was just trying to figure out where he fit. This is payback. This is him making sure that if he can’t have me, no one can—or at least, not without consequences.
“Tori?” Logan watches me with concern. “You okay? You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
“I’m fine.” The words come out automatic and hollow. “I just—I need a minute. Can you ice for ten? I’ll be right back.”
“Yeah, of course. Take your time.”
I make it to the supply closet before my legs give out. I lean against the shelving unit, surrounded by boxes of KT tape andbottles of massage oil, pressing my palms against my temples and trying to breathe.
This is bad. This is really,reallybad.
My phone buzzes. Then again. Then a third time. I wrench it from my pocket and dare a look.
Winnie:Hey, are you okay? Derek’s cousin works at MSG and said there’s some hockey gossip going around about a trainer and a player??
Winnie:Please tell me that’s not about you.
Winnie:Tori???
I don’t respond. I can’t. My hands are shaking too hard to type.
The rest of the afternoon is a blur. I finish Logan’s assessment on autopilot, smile and nod through two more sessions, and pretend everything is fine while the whispers follow me through every hallway. By three o’clock, even the equipment managers are giving me looks.
I don’t see Zayden. He had a light practice this morning and left early—something about Maisie’s school. Part of me is relieved. Part of me desperately wants to warn him, to figure out our story together, to not be alone in this.
At 4:15, my phone buzzes with a different kind of message.
Dana:My office. Now.
Three words. No context. I feel like I might hurl.
I finish my notes, log out of my computer, and walk down the hall toward Dana’s office on legs that feel like they belong to someone else. The hallway has never seemed this long, and everystep feels like I’m walking toward my own execution, which is dramatic but also kind of accurate.
Her door is open. She’s sitting behind her desk, reading something on her laptop, and she doesn’t look up when I knock on the doorframe.
“Close the door,” she says. “Sit down.”
