“Fair. But screw them. You’re brilliant at your job and you deserve to eat dinner without it being a scandal.”
I drive home with my stomach in knots, phone mercifully silent for now.
Maybe Rodriguez is wrong. Maybe no one cares. Maybe that photographer wasn’t even?—
My phone explodes.
Twelve texts. Six missed calls. Notifications I definitely didn’t ask for.
Roman
Rodriguez told me about the photos. You okay?
Jake
Doc. IG is having a moment. Don’t look at the comments.
Elliot
Ignore the internet. We all know it’s bullshit.
I pull over before opening apps because I need to see how bad it is.
The photo is everywhere.
Me leaning back, mouth open, eyes on Rodriguez. Him leaning toward me with his hand raised, both of us laughing.
Out of context it looks intimate. Romantic. Like he’s feeding me something seductively instead of throwing bread like a dumbass.
The comments make my stomach turn.
Another puck bunny going after players smh
Isn’t she supposed to be TREATING him? So unprofessional
This is why women shouldn’t work in male sports
Rodriguez can do better tbh
She’s pretty but this screams conflict of interest
Bet she’s sleeping with half the team
That last one makes my hands shake. Makes me want to throw my phone into traffic and scream until my throat bleeds.
I stop scrolling because it only gets worse. Because strangers who’ve never met me, never seen me work, never watched me fight for these players’ health—they’ve decided I’m unprofessional. A distraction. A problem.
And Winters is going to see this.
Is probably already seeing this. Already planning exactly how to use it against me.
My phone rings. Roman.
“I can explain?—”
“Are you okay?” His voice is tight, barely controlled. “Rodriguez texted but I saw the comments before he could warn me. They’re tearing you apart.”
“We were just—it was bread. He was throwing bread and I was catching it and—” I sound insane. “It looks bad but it wasn’t anything.”
