Chapter 31
Bayleigh
I stand in front of the rink. Ready to walk in and face the day. I know it’s going to be rough. I can do this. Shoulders back. Head held high. I’ve done nothing wrong.
Each step I take builds my confidence just a little more. Taking hold of the door, I pull it open, taking a deep breath before entering the lion’s den. I’m not an idiot. I know people are going to talk. But if I give in and act as if what I did was wrong, then I’m no better than them.
Normally, I don’t come into the rink every day, even though I have an office here. Most of my work can be done from home. But today I need to take pictures of some of the players during practice, in the weight room, and doing their PT.
As I make my way down the hallway, I can see some of the staff glancing my way before leaning in and whispering. Some are even laughing as they nod their heads toward me.
Don’t show any emotion, Bayleigh. They don’t need to know that their judgment is hurting you.
The tension in the room is sharp. Suffocating. But, I keep my shoulders straight, head forward, chin level, and my steps measured. Pretending to have composure that doesn’t come easy when your pulse is pounding.
The worst part?
I knew it would be like this. No matter how much I tried to lie to myself and say it wouldn’t be.
Because the moment I saw the photos on the gossip pages—my face turned up toward Lincoln Brooks like he was the only solid thing in the world—it was over.
Privacy gone. Reputation twisted into something cheap and consumable. Not because we were on a date. But because of who our brothers are. Korbin Brooks and Benton Lennox. Sworn enemies on rival teams.
I’m halfway down the hallway to my office when one of the rookies cuts me off, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe like he’s settling in for entertainment.
“Is it true?” he asks, eyes too bright, looking me right in the face, and talking slowly. He knows who I am. Who my brother is. That I’m deaf. “You and Brooks’ brother?”
I want to say a thousand things. That people are more than rumors. That my personal life isn’t a sport to bet on, or any of his concern.
But I don’t. He doesn’t know sign language and wouldn’t understand a word I said. And there’s no way I’m speaking. Imagine how the tabloids would run with that. Everyone would know how bad I sound when I talk.
My throat tightens, and I have to swallow hard as I step to the side, out of his path. He moves with me, blocking me in like a caged animal.
I force a polite smile that feels like it might crack my skin, and I nod slowly.
There’s no need to lie. The evidence is all out in the open in technicolor for all to see.
“Can’t fucking believe you’re disgracing your brother with a damn Scorpion.”
He won’t understand, but still I quickly sign.
Not a conversation I’m having at work.
Once again I step to the side, rushing past him, my heart racing as sweat pours down my back. I look over my shoulder to see if he’s following me, having learned my lesson already about not being aware of who’s around me. He’s not. Just standing there, shaking his head at me.
It’s not until I’m safely inside my office, door locked, sitting at my desk, that I realize how badly my hands are shaking.
I try to calm down, taking slow deep breaths, but it’s not working.
One inhale.
One exhale.
All I can think about is not falling apart here. Doing that will show people how vulnerable I am, and I refuse to let them see that.
Slowly, it seeps in that this is what I’m going to have to deal with. If I really want to pursue this with Lincoln, we’re going to be a constant topic in the tabloids.
Scorpion brother and Kraken sister.
A part of me wonders if this is something that Lincoln will even want to deal with.
Will he want to continue to hurt his brother in the public eye?
Because I know Benton is livid about this, so I can only imagine Korbin is too.
Maybe Lincoln would rather not have his brother mad. He is family after all. I’m not.
My phone vibrates on my wooden desk, sending electric impulses up my hand where it’s resting right beside it.
The screen lights up with a message from a person who must have sensed my inner turmoil.
Lincoln: Hey. I’ve been thinking about you. How’s it going today?
Do I lie? Tell the truth? Before I can make a decision, another message comes through.
Milton: Is your brother giving you grief?
Lincoln: Are you there, Bayleigh? Give me at least a thumbs up or down.
Milton: No you can give me the thumbs up. Just tell Lincoln to screw off. (wink emoji)
Lincoln: Are you at work?
Milton: What do you do for work? How does Lincoln get to know and I don’t? I’m the one you rescued when that mean kid tried to end my hockey career. My wrist is still hurting too.
Me: I’m fine.
I start to type another message to address all the questions, but Lincoln is quick to send another message.
Lincoln: I know what fine means in women's terms. What’s wrong?
Me: I’m at work. I’m the social media manager for the Krakens. Have you seen the doctor about your wrist?
Me: Normally I work from home, but today I had to come in to take some pictures for the website. I still have a job to do. One of the rookies cornered me about the pictures.
Lincoln: Did he put his hands on you? Where the fuck was your brother?
Me: No, and I don’t know.
Milton: Tell them you’re charging interview fees. Gotta profit off the chaos, B.
Milton: I saw the physical therapist we use. He was very confident that I need six months of immobilization and a complete pause on training. Ambitious advice, considering it was a puck to the wrist. He may be a doctor of physical therapy, but he’s not an actual medical doctor.
Me: I know someone who can maybe take a look at you. Let me talk to her.
Milton: Awwwwe, thanks B. See Lincoln, she loves me more. I’ll be the favorite in the pack.
The tension in my body lessens as I chat with the two of them. Milton trying to lighten the mood helps me to calm.
Lincoln: Ignore him; he's obviously going senile. We know I’m the main man in your life. As for the team. They don’t deserve any of your time. But I don’t like your brother’s teammates treating you like that. Are you going to tell him?
Me: No.
Lincoln: Either you do or I will.
Is this even real? The two of them are trying—God, they’re trying so hard to take care of me. To make me feel important, cared for, and wanted. The way they’re checking in on me, making sure that I’m okay.
But the person I keep circling back to, like a storm I can’t outrun, is Korbin.
I picture him opening his phone to the same headlines. The comments. The speculation. What he must be thinking. Lincoln is his brother, and I’ve just caused a shitstorm for being on a date with him.
Then I see Benton, his jaw tight, fury unmistakable. He’d be pissed if he knew the rookie cornered me today. This is his team, and I’ve made a joke out of him. No wonder he’s pissed at me.
If my brother is furious, then Korbin must be burning alive with it. I know he had to defend his brother yesterday. I can only imagine, even though he didn’t sound pissed at me in the text, that he must be.
Then there’s Lincoln. Would he even tell me if this was bothering him? Because being seen with me means he’s paying a price I don’t want him to pay.
I wonder what kind of heat he’s taking. What Korbin said to him when he saw the pictures.
We talk for a little more and then I tell them I need to get some work done.
By lunch, I’ve finished getting all the shots I need. All I want to do is go home and hide in my room forever. My mind is spiraling from all the looks the team’s been giving me all day. How they looked at Benton. The anger in his face. How he’s barely holding it together.
I’m emotionally spent, stretched thin. Every huddled whisper I can’t hear is another hand closing around my ribs and squeezing. My appetite is gone—food feels like a foreign language I’ve forgotten how to understand.
I sit in the far corner of the break room, phone in my hand, leg bouncing restlessly.
Finally, I type into the group chat, fingers trembling.
Me: I need a distraction.
It takes six seconds before Lincoln answers.
Lincoln: I know just the way to distract you. How much longer are you going to be at work?
Me: I can leave whenever. I got enough shots today to do what I need.
Lincoln: Let me get changed and I’ll pick you up at home. Let’s say an hour.
Just like that, something in my chest shifts—not enough to vanish, but enough to ease the tight, suffocating ache.
For the first time today, I feel oxygen move all the way down into my lungs. Not clean, not perfect, but real.
And it hits me:
I’m not okay.
Not even close.
But I’m not alone.