29. Aftershock #2
He shakes his head. Turns away. Starts clearing the French toast that no one finished, the plates, the strawberries Luke sliced with his meticulous, infuriating precision, and I recognize the gesture for what it is.
Grayson cooks when he wants to take care of people. He cleans when he can’t.
Sienna finds me in the powder room ten minutes later.
I’m sitting on a closed toilet staring at my phone, which has transformed into a live feed of my life detonating in public.
The screen is a wall of notifications I haven’t opened yet because opening them means acknowledging this is actually happening, and I’m still operating in the phase of crisis management where denial feels productive.
She closes the door behind her. Leans against the sink across from me.
“Show me what you’re seeing,” she says.
I hand her my phone. Let her scroll through while I finally allow myself to process the post itself.
I’d glanced at it earlier. But now, in the quiet of this small room with my future sister-in-law and the woman who might be the smartest person I know, I let it sink in.
The post is on a college hockey gossip account with forty thousand followers.
It’s written with the ambiguity of someone who understands defamation laws—all speculation, no accusations, every damning detail framed as a question.
Did Silver Pine’s breakout star leave BC because of a secret relationship with her current coach?
Sources report matching tattoos and shared holiday celebrations.
The account tags both Silver Pine’s athletics page and three national hockey media accounts.
There are no matching tattoos. Luke doesn’t have a tattoo of my number.
The detail is wrong in a way that’s almost helpful, a factual inaccuracy that could undermine the whole post’s credibility.
But the rest of it is specific enough to make my skin crawl.
Christmas Eve. Attending Grizzlies games together.
The tattoo on my hip described with enough accuracy that whoever provided the information saw it or heard about it from someone who did.
Drew . His fingerprints are everywhere. Not his name, but his method. A strategic vagueness wrapped in plausible deniability and weaponized. Exactly how he operated at BC. Never a direct accusation. Always a question. Always enough room to retreat if challenged while the damage spreads on its own.
“The matching tattoos detail is wrong,” I tell Sienna in case she doesn’t know .
She nods. “That helps. It gives us a factual inaccuracy to flag when we request removal.” A pause, then: “The rest of it is circumstantial. Attending family events together isn’t evidence of a relationship when you’ve been family friends for the better part of a decade.
The Christmas detail is true but explainable, Luke’s been at your moms for the holidays since he was in college. ”
Sienna sets my phone on the counter. Looks at me directly. “Everything else is noise. The tattoo is a signal.”
“I get that.”
“Who else knows about it?” she asks. “Besides Drew and Luke and now Grayson?”
I think. Sloane. Sky, probably. Liz Brennan for certain—she named it in the handshake line. Anyone Drew told, which could be one person or twenty. The three or four other guys I’d slept with before Drew who would have seen it but had zero clue what it actually meant. Until now.
“Too many people,” I admit.
Sienna bobs her head. Becomes the agent rather than the sister-in-law.
“Okay, here’s what I’m doing. The post is flagged for removal.
My contact at the platform says these accounts respond to legal pressure, so we're giving it. I’ve also reached out to Silver Pine’s communications office to give them a heads-up before any media calls come in.
They should hear it from us, not from a reporter. ”
“And Walsh?” The name scrapes out of my throat. The one that matters most. “If she sees this before Monday—”
“The Olympic committee evaluates athletes on performance and character. A social media rumor from an anonymous account isn’t going to override an entire season of tape and a formal evaluation.
” Sienna pauses. “But if it becomes a story… If the media picks it up, if there’s an investigation…
The committee will distance itself. They have to. ”
The word investigation sits between us like something with weight.
“Sienna.” I need to ask. Need to hear her answer. “How long have you known?”
She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. Doesn’t deflect. Gives me the same courtesy she gave Grayson in the kitchen—the truth without decoration.
“Since the engagement party. Maybe before. The way he looked at you that night, when your mom took the photo.” A pause. “That’s not how a brother’s friend looks at someone, Emma. That’s not how anyone looks at someone unless they’re in love. ”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“To whom? You weren’t together. Luke was in Chicago getting his MBA.
You were in Boston. And Grayson—” She softens just enough to remind me that underneath the strategist is a woman who loves my brother deeply and has been navigating his blind spots for four years.
“Grayson sees what he wants to see. He wanted to see a family that worked. A sister who was living her dream. A best friend who was loyal. And all of those things were true. They just weren’t the complete picture. ”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“He’s going to be angry for a while. Then he’s going to be hurt.
Then he’s going to process.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand once.
Brief. Firm. The kind of contact that conveys more than a hug because Sienna Brooks doesn’t waste gestures.
“He loves you, Emma. Both of you. That’s why it hurts this much.
If he didn’t care, he’d just be annoyed. ”
I want to cry. Want to let the tears that have been building since Luke walked out finally fall. Want to be the version of myself that’s allowed to be scared and uncertain and not holding it together for an audience.
But there’s a championship game tomorrow and an Olympic invitation on the line and a coach whose career may be over and a brother who needs time I might not have, so I do what I always do.
I stand up. Wipe my eyes before the tears actually form. Square my shoulders.
“What do I do right now?”
“Don’t respond to anything online. Don’t post. Don’t engage.
” Sienna stands too. All business now. “Talk to your team. The ones who matter. Make sure they hear it from you, not from the internet. And then—” She meets my eyes.
“Focus on tomorrow. Because the single best thing you can do for yourself, for Luke, for this entire situation, is win that championship.”
Win the championship. Like it’s that simple. Like I can compartmentalize the way Luke does, file the personal crisis in one drawer and the professional obligation in another and function like a human being while both drawers are on fire.
Then again, I’ve been handling it for five months. What’s one more day?
Zane drives me to the arena for the game.
He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t try to fix it or philosophize or offer the kind of hollow reassurance that people default to when they don’t know what else to do.
Just drives his rental with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console, existing beside me in the silence the way only someone who’s genuinely comfortable with discomfort can.
We’re fifteen minutes from the arena when he finally speaks.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, eyes on the road, voice stripped of the charm and the bravado and the golden-boy polish, “he’s the best version of himself when you’re around. Has been for years.” A beat. “Grayson will figure that out. Just might take him a minute.”
I don’t trust myself to respond. So I just nod and watch the highway pass and let Zane’s quiet loyalty hold space for the grief I’m not ready to feel yet.
He walks with me until we reach the pre-game family lounge. Squeezes my shoulder (the same gesture he gave Luke in the kitchen), and the symmetry of it, Zane tethering both of us with the same silent I’m here , almost breaks me.
An hour later, I head to our section. The one I’ve been sitting in for every game of Grayson’s I’ve made the last two-and-a-half years.
Grayson takes the ice and doesn’t look for me the way he usually does.
The absence of his eyes finding mine in the crowd is its own kind of quiet, deliberate punishment.
I deserve it. Maybe. Partly. The hiding part.
Not the love. Never the love.
My phone has been vibrating steadily since brunch. I finally force myself to look.
Sloane sent fourteen messages. The first twelve are escalating variations of what’s happening, are you okay, and I will physically fight whoever did this.
The thirteenth is a screenshot of the post with every factual inaccuracy circled in red like she’s grading an exam.
The fourteenth just says: I love you. Whatever you need. I’m here.
Sky simply texted: Saw it. You know where I stand. Call when you’re ready.
Becca. One message. Six words. Don't let them get to you .
My team. My friends.
They’re still here. All of them. Circling up the way they do after a bad shift, closing ranks, sticks on the ice. Nobody asking me to explain or defend or justify. Just, we see you, we’re with you, see you tomorrow.
Grayson plays that night with the fury of a man channeling personal devastation into professional performance. He scores twice. Gets an assist. Wins the game for New York with a third-period goal while Zane attempts to defend it.
He doesn’t look at me. Not once.
After the game, Sienna drives me back to campus.
It’s quiet.
She doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask how I’m doing because she’s smart enough to know the answer is badly and kind enough not to make me say it out loud. She pulls up to the hockey house, and before I get out, she puts her hand on my arm.
“Focus on the game tomorrow, Emma. Everything else, we handle after.”
I nod. Get out. Walk inside.
The house is dark. Sloane’s door is closed. Sky and Rowan are out or asleep or giving me space because the group chat has probably already distributed the news and the tactical plan and the understanding that Emma needs room to breathe before she needs company.
I go upstairs. Luke’s old room. My room. The bed where he kissed me two weeks ago after the Olympic interview. Where he climbed through the window and told me he wanted to make every memory in this space ours.
I sit on the edge. Alone. In the dark. Press my hand against the tattoo on my hip and feel the raised edges of ink that’s been part of my body for four years. Strength and determination. XIX.
My phone lights up one last time.
Luke.
Not a call. A text. Two sentences that contain a world.
Luke
Spoke with Calloway. We need to talk about what’s going to happen tomorrow.
I stare at the screen until it dims.
Then I type back the truest thing I know.
I'll be ready. Will you?
Luke
Always
One word. A promise.