Chapter 27
Penalty Box
Sage
My phone won’t stop vibrating.
At first, it’s easy to ignore—the soft buzz weaving into the sound of the coffee machine sputtering in the kitchen. But then it happens again. And again. By the time I drag myself upright, the screen is lit up like a Christmas tree: notifications stacked so high I can’t even see where they start.
Mentions. Tags. DMs.
And right there at the top—the headline that turns my stomach inside out.
Chef Winslow: Hockey’s Most Expensive Distraction?
The Puck Whisperer’s logo sits just below it, smug and polished. I scroll, already knowing I shouldn’t. Every sentence feels like a new bruise. My catering business—my work—has been reduced to gossip fodder. “Luxury meal prep for players.” “Using access to elite athletes to boost visibility.”
There’s a photo of me from last month’s event, smiling with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, re-captioned to sound like bait. Clout-chasing culinary darling turns up heat off the ice.
My throat tightens. I scroll faster, past the pull quotes and the speculation until I hit the comments.
That’s where the real poison lives.
She’s obviously with him for the money.
Guess sleeping with players is one way to get five-star reviews.
He’ll drop her when his suspension hits.
I drop the phone on the bed like it burns. My reflection in the window looks pale, small. It shouldn’t hurt this much—it’s just noise. But it feels personal, like they’ve peeled something raw and private open for sport.
The knock on my door startles me. I pull on a sweatshirt before answering.
It’s my downstairs neighbor, Marie, holding up a tablet. “Sage, honey, you seeing this?”
I nod, voice rough. “Yeah. I’m seeing it.”
Her brows knit together. “People are cruel.”
“Yeah,” I say again, forcing a smile I don’t feel. “They are.”
By the time I make it to the restaurant, my stomach’s already in knots. The kitchen hums with the usual lunch rush—steam, chatter, orders being barked—but I can feel the shift the second I walk in. Heads turn. Conversations drop off. Phones lower just a little too late.
As I step farther into the kitchen, the heat from the stoves wraps around me, thick with the smell of butter and spice.
My pulse kicks up, every conversation suddenly sharper in my ears.
Ron, my manager, intercepts me near the prep station.
His expression is kind, but his tone is clipped. “Sage, can we talk?”
That’s never a good sentence.
He leads me to the office, closing the door behind us. “You know I’ve got your back,” he starts, and that’s how I know I’m about to lose something.
I nod. “But?”
He sighs. “But we can’t keep handling press calls. It’s nonstop—people asking for statements, reservations spiking for the wrong reasons. I think it’s best if you take a week. Let it cool off.”
The words sink like stones. “You’re benching me.”
“It’s not punishment,” he says quickly. “It’s just optics.”
I laugh under my breath, sharp and humorless. “Optics. Right.”
Ron’s shoulders drop. “You don’t deserve this, Sage.”
I know he means it. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
When I step back out into the kitchen, the air feels different. Thinner. I grab my apron off the hook anyway, just to have something in my hands. But the truth lands before I can stop it.
Leo’s not the only one under review.
Maya shows up at my apartment that evening, hair still damp from her shift, expression thunderous. She doesn’t even knock—just storms in, holding up her phone. “You’ve seen it, right? The new post?”
I sink into the couch, exhausted. “Yeah. I’ve seen it.”
“It’s disgusting,” she says, pacing the living room. “He’s twisting everything. You should sue him. I’m serious, Sage.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out hollow. “For what? Defamation? Public humiliation? That would just give him another headline.”
Maya stops pacing long enough to look at me. “So you’re just gonna let him win?”
The words sting, mostly because they sound familiar. “It’s not about winning. It’s about surviving the week.”
She drops down beside me, shaking her head. “You’re better than this. He’s making you out to be some kind of social climber when all you’ve done is work your ass off.”
“I know.” My voice cracks on the word. “But knowing it doesn’t change anything.”
Maya’s quiet for a beat. Then, softer: “You talked to Leo?”
“Not yet.” I rub my temples, the dull ache behind my eyes building. “He had the league hearing this morning. I didn’t want to make it worse.”
Her hand lands gently on my knee. “You’re not what’s making it worse.”
I wish I believed her.
The phone on the coffee table buzzes again. This time, it’s a text from Leo.
Suspended three games. No pay. I’ll be home soon.
My stomach twists, a mix of dread and something heavier. It’s not the suspension itself—it’s what I know it means to him. Hockey isn’t just his job; it’s the thing that’s kept him alive. Losing even a few games will tear him apart.
Maya sees my face change. “What is it?”
“He’s coming home,” I say quietly. “And he’s not gonna take it well.”
Maya squeezes my hand. “Then maybe it’s your turn to hold him up for once.”
I nod, though my heart feels like it’s splintering. “Yeah,” I whisper. “Maybe it is.”
The apartment door clicks open just after eight. I’m sitting on the couch, lights dim, the muted glow of the TV flickering against the walls. The sound of keys hitting the counter breaks the quiet.
Leo doesn’t say anything at first. His jaw ticks, the muscles flexing as if he’s chewing back words.
The air between us feels thick, heavy with everything he isn’t saying.
He just stands there in the doorway, still in his team jacket, shoulders hunched like the weight of the entire league is sitting on them.
His face looks different—tired, hollowed out, the sharp edge of his frustration dulled into something heavier.
“Hey,” I say softly.
He looks up. “Hey.” The word sounds like gravel.
I start to stand, but he waves a hand. “Don’t. I just need a second.” He drops onto the armchair across from me, elbows braced on his knees. The silence stretches. The only sound is the low hum of the fridge and the city outside.
I finally break it. “Claire called?”
He nods. “Yeah. PR statement goes out tomorrow morning. They’re calling it ‘unprofessional conduct’ instead of ‘violence.’ Lucky me.”
My chest aches. “Three games isn’t the end of the world.”
His laugh is short, bitter. “Feels like it.”
“Leo—”
He cuts me off, leaning back, running both hands through his hair. “You ever get the feeling we’re just… stuck? No matter what we do, it’s wrong?”
My throat tightens. “Every day.”
He looks up then, eyes tired but sharp. “We’re both in the penalty box now, huh?”
The words sting, but there’s a faint, rueful smile behind them. He’s trying—his version of humor. I cross the room, kneeling in front of him. “Then we sit it out together.”
He exhales, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“I don’t have a choice. Neither do you.” I reach for his hand, threading my fingers through his. “So we make it mean something.”
His eyes meet mine, and something flickers there—a spark, small but stubborn. “Then we take it back,” he murmurs.
Before I can answer, his phone buzzes on the counter.
We both turn as it lights up, the name flashing across the screen.
Claire Han (Speaker): “You two need to see this—Grayson just went live.”