Chapter 9
Speculation
Sage
The hum of the dinner rush swells around me — clinking glasses, sizzling pans, the low thrum of conversation under dim lighting. Friday nights at élan are a symphony of chaos, but tonight, something feels off-key.
Even though I should be behind the line with a chef’s coat knotted tight and a station to command, staffing shortages mean I bounce wherever I’m needed — plating, expo, even running orders into the dining room when the servers get slammed.
I spend half my shift navigating between kitchens heat and candlelit tables, tray balanced on my palm, smiling like I belong to the front of house as much as the back.
It starts with the whispers.
I catch them as I pass the hostess stand — two servers leaning in, voices hushed but animated. My name flickers in the air, quickly swallowed when they notice me watching. Then laughter, too quick, too forced.
I pretend I didn’t hear.
“Order up, Sage!” Marco calls from the pass window, his spatula clanging as he points toward the plates.
I slide into autopilot, collecting them, checking the garnish, forcing a practiced smile. It’s muscle memory — kitchen instincts colliding with customer-service polish as I step through the swinging doors and back onto the floor.
But every time I move through the dining room, I feel eyes on me that don’t belong to my tables.
It takes me a second to figure out why.
The bar TV — mounted over the shelves of liquor bottles — flashes a familiar face. Leo’s. The sports segment is muted, but the caption scrolls along the bottom: “Surge Captain Leo Voss Displaced After Flood: Will Off-Ice Disruption Impact His Season?”
My stomach drops.
Of course.
Even from across the room, the looped footage feels invasive — him at practice, skating drills, answering reporters. The clip ends with arena B-roll and dramatic music — sensationalist fluff, the kind networks love.
A few customers at the bar are already talking. One man elbows his friend, murmuring with a grin, “Man, can you imagine? That guy probably lives like a king. Bet his ‘flooded penthouse’ is still bigger than my entire house.”
Another chuckles, lifting his beer. “He’ll be fine. It’s Voss. Probably holed up in some luxury hotel.”
The words hit harder than they should. I keep my head down, pretending to polish a nonexistent smudge off my tray.
Maya slides up beside me with a tray of cocktails, eyes glittering. She bumps my shoulder playfully. “Hey, Sage. Guess you’re attracting a different kind of clientele now. Think any of these guys are single NHL players looking for a home-cooked meal?”
I snort, trying for casual. “Yeah, I’ll just add ‘sports agent’ to my résumé.”
Maya grins and winks. “Come on, don’t tell me you wouldn’t. Athletes are walking bank accounts, babe. Snag one while you can.”
The words land light, teasing — but the way she says snag makes something twist in my gut. Because one of them is sleeping on my couch, towel perpetually draped over the bathroom door, socks hiding in my laundry.
I paste on a smile anyway. “I’ll leave the snagging to you. I’m fully booked on my dating disasters.”
Maya laughs and spins away toward her next table, her laughter trailing behind. But the echo of her joke lingers. I glance at the bar again — at Leo’s name looping across the screen in bold white font — and my chest tightens.
He’s news. Even when he’s doing nothing. Even when he’s just… existing. And I can’t decide if that makes me proud of him or scared for myself.
By mid-shift, the whispers have turned into background noise. I tell myself I’m imagining it — that nobody’s connecting anything beyond the gossip on TV — but the restaurant feels smaller with every passing minute.
Two men at Table 12 — jerseys half-zipped, LA Stars caps backward — talk loud enough for half the room to hear. “They said he’s staying downtown,” one says, slicing into his steak. “Bet it’s one of those boutique hotels. Guy’s probably got a suite big enough for a hot tub.”
His friend leans back with a smirk. “Nah, you heard that reporter earlier. Said he’s ‘keeping a low profile.’ Which means he’s probably shacked up with someone.”
The words land like a slap. I grip the stem of a wineglass a little too tightly as I pass by, the thin crystal squeaking under my fingers.
They don’t even notice me. “Can you imagine being that someone? Leo Voss’s live-in fling? Bet she’s having the time of her life.”
My stomach knots. I tell myself to walk away, to focus on the next table, but my feet won’t move. Every part of me is rigid — like I’m waiting for impact.
Marco’s bark cuts through from the kitchen, spatula raised. “Sage! Order on five, let’s move!”
It breaks the spell. I set the glass down, inhale slow, and step back into motion. Smile. Deliver. Breathe. It’s just noise. That’s all it is.
But the words follow me — echoing through the clatter of plates, the low hum of music, the chatter of diners who have no idea how close they’re hitting.
When I reach the bar, Maya’s refilling drinks. She glances at me, concern creasing her brow. “You good? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Just tired,” I lie. “Didn’t sleep much.”
She slides a lemon wedge across a glass, smirking. “You sure it’s not because you have someone keeping you up?”
I let out a brittle laugh and flick the bar rag at her arm. “Maya.”
“Okay, okay.” She raises her hands in surrender, still grinning. “Joking. Don’t kill me.”
I wipe down the counter to hide my shaking hands. The TV flashes again — Leo, mid-game highlight this time — and my chest tightens all over again.
He’s out there living under a microscope, and somehow, I’m the one who feels exposed.
The dinner crowd has thinned, but the tension hasn’t. The clink of silverware gives way to low music and laughter from the bar — the kind that’s a little too loud, a little too forced. I’m resetting a table when the front door opens and a familiar voice floats in.
“Anya Lopez, Surge Beat. Table for one?”
I freeze.
The hostess greets her cheerfully, but my stomach drops like a stone. I don’t even have to look to know what this is. Anya’s good at her job — persistent, charming, dangerous in heels and a press badge. And if she’s here, it isn’t coincidence.
She slides onto a barstool, all polished confidence, her notepad and phone already out. Her camera bag sits beside her like a warning.
Maya sidles up beside me at the service station, whispering, “Oh my God, is that her? The reporter from the Surge postgame stuff?”
“Yeah.” My voice is barely a breath.
“What’s she doing here?”
“Probably eating,” I say, even though I know better.
Because a few minutes later, Anya’s chatting with our bartender, smiling too easily, leaning in just enough to be overheard. I catch snippets as I pass with a tray: players frequenting local spots, comfort routines, team morale. It’s the kind of small talk that sounds harmless—until it isn’t.
When I set down an order nearby, she glances my way. Just a flick of her gaze. But it lingers half a beat too long.
“Hi,” she says, all pleasant professionalism. “You’re Sage, right? Head chef?”
“Assistant chef,” I correct automatically. My voice stays polite, even, though my pulse is a drumbeat in my throat. “Can I get you anything”
Her smile curves sharper. “Just curious — do a lot of players come here? I’ve been hearing rumors this is a favorite postgame spot.”
I keep my expression neutral. “We get a mix. Locals, travelers. You know, whoever’s hungry.”
“Of course,” she says, writing something down. “It’s a great atmosphere. I imagine it’s perfect for someone looking to keep a low profile.”
The words are casual. But the way her eyes lift, meeting mine, tells me she’s testing me — watching for a flicker, a crack.
I give her none. “Enjoy your meal,” I say, voice steady, and turn on my heel before she can ask anything else.
Back in the kitchen, the heat hits harder. Marco shoots me a look over the grill. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I grab a towel, wiping my hands like I can scrub off the tension crawling under my skin. “Press is out front.”
He whistles low. “Looking for gossip?”
“Always.” I force a laugh, but it sounds flat. “Not from me, though.”
Because if Anya’s sniffing around the displacement story, it’s only a matter of time before she puts two and two together. And when she does, the fallout won’t just be his.
It’ll be mine, too.
By the time the restaurant closes, I’m running on fumes and nerves. My apron smells like garlic and anxiety. Even after Anya’s left, her presence lingers — the echo of her questions, the click of her pen, the way she studied me like a clue she couldn’t quite solve.
Maya corners me while I’m wiping down the prep counter. “Okay, spill. What was that about? She was asking everyone about the Surge.”
I keep my tone breezy. “She’s doing some fluff piece. Players’ favorite restaurants, probably.”
“Uh-huh.” Maya leans against the counter, crossing her arms. “Funny how she asked you the most questions.”
“She was just being thorough.” I force a smile, but it feels brittle. “Anyway, I’ve got closing duties.”
Maya doesn’t push, but her knowing look follows me all the way to the kitchen sink. The clatter of dishes fills the silence I can’t stand. My hands move on instinct — scrub, rinse, repeat — but my thoughts spiral.
Anya’s story will air. The rumors will spread. And if she so much as connects a single dot between me and Leo, everything I’ve worked for could collapse in a single headline. Not because of scandal — because perception rules everything. No chef wants to be known for who she’s feeding off the ice.
By the time I lock up and step outside, my chest feels tight. The air is cold, cutting through the haze of heat and noise I’ve carried all night. I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and start walking.
When I get home, the lights in the apartment are low. Leo’s sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, game highlights still playing on mute. He stirs when the door shuts behind me, blinking like he’s trying to figure out what time it is.
“Late night?” he mumbles, voice rough.
“Yeah,” I say, kicking off my shoes. “Busy.”
He stretches, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “How’d it go?”
I hesitate. The truth is, it feels like I’ve been holding my breath for hours. “Fine,” I say finally. “We had… guests.”
He frowns, sitting up. “Reporters?”
I sigh, dropping my bag on the counter. “Anya Lopez. She was sniffing around again — this time at élan’s. Asking about players, places they hang out, who they eat with.”
He mutters something under his breath, low and dark. “Of course she was.”
“She’s good at her job,” I say quietly. “She’ll find a story whether it’s real or not.”
He looks at me then, sharp and steady. “You didn’t tell her anything, right?”
The question stings, even though I know he doesn’t mean it that way. “Of course not.”
His shoulders drop, tension easing just a little. “Sorry. I just—” He drags a hand through his hair. “They twist everything for clicks. It’s exhausting.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I noticed.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The muted TV flickers across his face, painting him in soft blues and grays. He looks tired — the kind of tired that sinks into bone. And for the first time all day, I let myself admit it: I’m tired too.
I should go straight to bed. It’s late, the restaurant smell is still in my hair, and my feet ache from a ten-hour shift.
But my brain won’t let go of the noise — the whispers, the headlines, Anya’s too-bright smile.
So instead, I curl up on the far end of the couch with my phone, trying to scroll the restlessness away.
Leo’s still watching the muted TV, half-slouched, his hand absently rubbing the back of his neck. We haven’t said much since I got home. The kind of silence that feels less like distance and more like fragile peace.
Finally, he says, “You shouldn’t have to deal with that crap.” His voice is low, rough. “People talking, reporters showing up — it’s not your problem.”
I stare at the screen, pretending to read something. “Kind of is, though. You’re news, Leo. You could breathe wrong and someone would spin it into a headline.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, they’ll get bored eventually.”
I glance at him. “You really believe that?”
His jaw flexes. “No.”
There’s a heaviness in his tone that makes my chest ache. He’s used to it — the scrutiny, the pressure, the way everyone thinks they own a piece of him. But now it’s bleeding into my world, my kitchen, my name whispered in someone else’s story. I don’t know how to separate from it.
“It’s exhausting,” I admit softly. “Being around someone who’s always… watched. Like every move could be proof of something.”
He turns toward me, eyes shadowed in the flicker of the TV. “Then don’t let them get to you. They don’t know anything real.”
I want to believe that. I really do. But the problem is, we don’t even know what’s real right now.
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. A voicemail notification pops up, the contact name sharp and unwelcome: Asshole.
The air leaves my lungs.
Leo glances over. “You gonna get that?”
“No.” My voice comes out too fast. I lock the screen, but the preview text still burns in my head — the automated transcription catching just enough to make my stomach turn.
We both know you were better with me. Stop pretending you’ve moved on. You’ll come back — you always do.
My hand shakes as I set the phone face-down on the coffee table. The room feels suddenly too quiet, too bright. Leo’s watching me, brow furrowed, like he’s trying to decide whether to ask.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.” The word cracks. I force another. “It’s nothing.”
He studies me for a second longer but doesn’t push. The TV light flickers across his face, and I focus on that instead of the ache crawling up my throat.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned tonight, it’s that pretending is easier than explaining — and safer than being seen.