Chapter 28
Under the Lights
Leo
The glow from the TV paints the living room in shifting shades of blue and white.
I stand behind the couch, jaw tight, as Grayson Locke leans toward the camera.
The studio lights glare off his slicked-back hair, the faint buzz of equipment filling the air beneath the low murmur of the audience.
His trademark smirk is there—polished, smug, like he’s auditioning for sainthood.
“No hard feelings,” he says, voice smooth as oil. “But some players forget hockey’s a team sport once the cameras find their new favorite angle.”
The studio audience chuckles, right on cue. My stomach turns.
Sage sits on the edge of the couch, both hands wrapped around a mug she hasn’t touched. Her fingers tremble slightly, the ceramic clicking against the saucer. I can’t take my eyes off the screen, even though every word feels like another hit I can’t dodge.
The host grins, feeding him lines. “You’re saying you think the fame’s gotten to certain players?”
Grayson shrugs, all casual confidence. “Hey, I’m not naming names. But when your focus shifts from the ice to what’s happening off it… well, it’s not just the player who pays the price. The whole team does.”
The crowd laughs again. He doesn’t say Sage’s name, but he doesn’t have to. Every word drips with implication. “Homemade dinners.” “Distractions.” “A chef who thinks she’s a coach.” It’s all there, veiled just enough to sound clever, sharp enough to draw blood.
Sage’s voice is quiet, but I hear the tremor in it. “He’s using me.”
I move closer, keeping my tone even. “He’s trying to use us.”
Grayson keeps talking, answering each question like he rehearsed the script weeks ago. The host leans forward, pretending surprise. “And what about the parking lot altercation?”
That smirk again. “You can’t blame him. Guess I still have a way of getting under people’s skin.”
My hands curl into fists before I even realize it. The leather of the couch creaks under my grip. My pulse hammers in my ears, drowning out the next line of laughter. I can see Sage flinch beside me, her shoulders drawing tight, like she’s bracing for impact.
The phone buzzes on the counter—Claire Han. I snatch it up.
“Turn it off,” she says immediately. “Don’t react. Don’t post. We’ll handle the narrative.”
“I’m not letting him—”
“Leo,” she cuts in, her voice sharp. “You go off right now, you lose. Let him talk himself into a hole.”
I don’t answer. I hang up instead.
Sage’s reflection flickers in the dark TV screen—still, silent, her mug untouched. The broadcast rolls on until the credits fade, leaving us in a room full of static and swallowed words.
Finally, she sets the cup down, the sound small but final. “He’s not just coming after you,” she says softly. “He’s coming after what I built.”
I meet her eyes. “Then we stop playing defense.”
We don’t turn the lights back on. The TV screen goes black, and in the reflection, I can still see the faint outline of us—two people standing in the aftermath, too wired to sit, too tired to speak.
Sage runs a hand through her hair, pacing the length of the room. “You think he planned that? The timing?”
“Of course he did,” I say. “He waited until the league hit me, until you got pulled from the restaurant. He wanted to kick us while we’re already down.”
Her laugh is sharp, humorless. “So what, we just let him?”
The question hangs between us, heavier than it should be. I can feel her frustration, the energy rolling off her like heat. She’s never been one to stay quiet, and watching her fight the urge now—it makes something twist inside me.
I move closer, steady, deliberate. “No,” I say. “We don’t let him. But we don’t play his game, either.”
She stops pacing, turns to face me. “Then what’s ours?”
“Control the story before he does.” The words come out harder than I mean them to. “We tell the truth before someone else spins it.”
Sage’s brows furrow. “You think the truth even matters to people who’ve already decided we’re the villains?”
“It matters to us,” I say quietly. “And that’s the only way this stops hurting.”
Her eyes meet mine, and I can see the fight in her shift—less fury, more resolve. “So how do we start?”
I exhale slowly. “We start with you.”
Her mouth parts, surprise flickering across her face. “Me?”
“You’ve been letting them tell your story for weeks,” I say. “It’s time you tell it yourself.”
She looks away, chewing her bottom lip. “You think anyone would listen?”
I step forward until there’s barely space between us. “They’ll listen to you. They just need to see the real version—the one he can’t twist.”
For a moment, the only sound is our breathing, low and even. Then Sage nods, slow but sure. “Okay,” she says. “Then let’s take it back.”
And just like that, the heaviness in the room shifts. It’s not gone—just changing shape. Turning into something we can use.
An hour passes before either of us speaks again, the storm outside fading into a steady drizzle while our breathing evens out. It’s enough time for anger to cool into focus, for chaos to start looking like direction.
The plan starts small. Scribbled notes on napkins, ideas fired back and forth between us until they start to form something that looks like purpose. Sage paces while she talks, her hands moving fast, voice rising with each spark of momentum.
“I can do a video,” she says, eyes bright. “Not some influencer apology thing—just me, in the kitchen. Honest. Real. Show people what I actually do, what my business is about.”
I nod, jotting things down. “We can frame it around authenticity—hard work, craft, community. Take back the narrative from the Puck Whisperer crap.”
Her gaze flicks up to mine. “And you?”
I hesitate, then shrug. “I’ll make my own statement. Quiet. Controlled. Tell them what happened without giving Locke what he wants.”
Sage studies me, like she’s weighing how much of that she believes. “You think you can do that without blowing up?”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “I can try.”
The silence that follows isn’t heavy—it’s charged. There’s something grounding about this, sitting side by side at the counter, two cups of cold coffee between us and a plan taking shape. For the first time in weeks, it feels like we’re moving forward instead of bracing for impact.
Sage leans back, tapping her pen against the table. “You know what this means, right? Once we go public, there’s no going back. No more hiding.”
“I know.” I glance at her, voice steady. “That’s the point.”
Her expression softens, but her eyes are fierce. “Then we do it together.”
Before I can respond, her phone buzzes on the table. She flips it over—and freezes.
Her face drains of color. “Oh, God.”
“What is it?”
She turns the screen toward me. The livestream replay—Grayson’s smug face front and center—has already hit over a million views.
And at the top of the comments, pinned and glowing in neon white: If he won’t dump her, maybe the league will.
The air leaves the room. Sage looks at me, and I can see the same thought flicker in her eyes that’s been gnawing at mine all night.
What if that’s exactly the plan?