Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Aylcia
Idon’t realize I’m shaking until the clipboard slips a fraction in my hand.
Just a tiny tremor, easy to hide, but I feel it all the way up to my shoulders.
It is what happens when you hold yourself together for too long.
Every muscle starts a quiet rebellion under your skin.
I keep my steps measured as I leave the rink, but inside, I’m still vibrating from the moment Kyle looked at me.
By the time I get to the elevator, my smile feels like it’s stapled to my face.
“Great set of drills today,” one of the media interns says, still buzzing as we move down the hall. “Did you see the way Kyle moved out there? The cameras ate it up.”
My hand tightens around my clipboard. Yeah. I saw the way his timing was half a step behind. I saw the hurt he tried and failed to hide. I saw all of it, and I ignored it because acknowledging what we’re both carrying doesn’t help either of us. It just makes it real.
“I’ll review the footage this afternoon,” I say, voice smooth and unbothered. “We’ll pull clips for socials. Focus on the foundation spots, charity mentions, anything that looks supportive and team focused.”
“Got it. Oh, and that moment when you walked in? The camera caught him looking right at you. It’s like…” They catch themselves, cheeks flushing. “Sorry, that was unprofessional.”
“It’s fine. Just send me the time codes.”
The elevator doors open with a soft ding, and I step inside, letting the doors close between me and any more questions I’m not stable enough to answer.
My reflection ghosts across the metal. Clean bun.
Neutral lipstick. The exact version of myself I chose to be.
No trace of the woman who stood at the edge of the rink and felt her heart climb into her throat because one look from Kyle Hendrix told her more than any headline ever could.
He looked cracked around the edges in a way I recognize because I’m carrying the same fault lines.
The elevator climbs. My stomach does not.
The PR floor is controlled chaos when I step out. All the activity should ground me, but everything under my ribs is still humming like a live wire.
“Does anyone know if we have the updated pull quote for the foundation newsletter? They want to lead with the gala again,” someone calls from the bullpen.
Of course, they do. The world doesn’t stop moving because I feel like the ground has fallen out from beneath my feet. Phone calls and emails need to be answered. I need to keep moving, no matter how much it hurts.
“Check your email,” I answer instinctively, already moving toward my office. “Subject line Gala Recap–Donor Safe. Use the second paragraph, not the first.”
“Got it, thanks!”
Another voice catches me just before I can shut my door. “Hey, Alycia? The league reposted the dance video again. Engagement is through the roof. They want us to lean into the ‘perfect couple’ angle for the next week or so.”
My vision closes in on itself. That bone-deep grief I've been fighting desperately to keep at bay lurks in the shadows once again. I try to dress it up as a strategy, but no matter how hard I try, it hits deep under the breastbone, where breathing becomes something you have to remember how to do. Perfect couple. Push the angle. Pretend harder. It’s astonishing how quickly a heart can ache, and a face can stay perfectly blank of emotion.
“The league can want whatever it likes,” I say, turning just enough to meet the social coordinator’s eyes. “We’ll lean into what’s sustainable. I’ll send revised language.”
“You’re a lifesaver.”
I close my office door before anyone else can ask me to package my mistakes as strategy.
The fluorescent lighting feels harsher than it did this morning. It always does when I’m tired: too white, too flat, highlighting every paper out of place, every smudge on my screen, every tiny reminder that the world keeps moving no matter how hard you want it to stop.
I drop into my chair and wake up my computer.
The monitor blinks to life with email notifications flooding the corner of the screen, alerts popping up from every platform, the Timberwolves’ social dashboard a wall of blue and white, and the photo the league keeps reposting of my face pressed against Kyle’s shoulder pinned to the top of the page.
My heart folds in on itself as I click it open, even though I know I shouldn’t.
We are in the middle of the dance floor.
My hand rests on his chest, his fingers laced with mine.
We look happy in the photo. Not staged-happy or PR-happy.
Happy in a way that slips out when you forget anyone is watching.
There’s an ease in my posture I don’t recognize.
A quiet warmth in my smile that doesn’t belong to the woman who’s built her life on being untouchable.
Kyle is looking at me like the rest of the room has fallen away, and he is fine staying right there, in that small slice of time.
This is the version of us the world saw. The one the board praised for our “authentic connection.” Millions of hearts and crying emojis in the comments. Paragraphs about soulmates and fate from people who don’t know either of us. I should close the photo, but I don’t.
All I can think about is that I left him holding the truth while I handed him a lie and called it survival.
I did this to us. I tightened every boundary until neither of us had room to breathe.
I chose stability over the way he made me feel seen in a way no one ever has.
I'm the one who told him it couldn’t be real, like the words alone could keep me safe from the consequences of wanting someone who could break me open with a single look.
Staring at the softness in his eyes and the emotion I can’t deny in mine, all I feel is loss twisting through my ribs.
I walked away from a moment that felt more real than anything I’ve allowed myself in years.
I chose control over possibility, and it’s still cutting me.
I’m mourning something I never let myself have.
I force my hands back to the keyboard, open the spreadsheet for media hits, and start checking off outlets that covered our “charity partner of the year” nod. Flag any mention that leans too hard into the fake-dating angle. Our fairy-tale romance is trending. Again.
My body moves on autopilot. Identify the risk. Contain the narrative. Protect the brand. Protect everyone but yourself. A knock hits the doorframe, soft but sharp in the quiet. I blink away the shine in my eyes and sit up straighter, pulling composure over myself like a blazer two sizes too small.
“Alycia?” Janine leans in, tablet in hand. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course.” My voice lands calmly. “Come in.”
She steps inside and pauses when she sees the photo on my screen. Her eyes soften for half a heartbeat, then shift back into work mode.
“The numbers are unbelievable,” she says, tapping her screen. “The board is thrilled. Donations are up. Sentiment is up. Engagement is through the roof. You should be proud.”
The words hit like they’re traveling through glass. Pride can’t reach past the ache sitting under my ribs.
“That’s good. We can draft a mid-campaign recap and send it to the foundation this afternoon.”
She studies my face longer than I want her to. “Alycia, people are speculating.”
“About what, exactly?”
“The dance and the way you two looked at each other.” She hesitates. “I need to know if what I’m defending is just a narrative or if there’s more I should be braced for.”
A part of me wants to laugh at the idea that I’d let feelings interfere with my job. That I would let myself want something I can’t control. But in the back of my mind, I hear Kyle’s voice: Tell me that was real tonight, sweetheart. And my answer, the lie wrapped in logic: It can’t be real.
“It’s a successful campaign,” I say, each word clean and practiced. “We built a story, and it landed. That’s what you’re defending.”
“Are you sure about that?” she asks quietly.
Absolutely not. “Yes.”
She holds my gaze for another second, then nods. “All right, but if something changes, I want to hear it from you first.”
“I understand.”
She leaves, closing the door behind her.
The room feels smaller as soon as she is gone.
Every inch of air pressing inward. I stare at the photo until the edges blur and my breath goes unsteady.
It doesn’t matter how many headlines call it a fairy tale.
Nothing in that picture looks fake. And if it was real, even for a second, then I’m the one who ruined it.
I pinch the bridge of my nose until pain blooms there.
It does nothing to chase away the feeling that I’m still falling.
The sharp ring of my desk phone cuts through the quiet. I clear my throat, straighten even though no one can see me, and slip on my headset. “PR, this is Alycia.”
“Ay, mija… suenas cansada.” My mother’s voice pours through the line, warm and familiar. “Are they working you too hard again?”
I close my eyes for half a breath. Her concern usually feels like comfort. Today, it hits the exact spot I’ve been avoiding. “Hi, Mamá. It has just been a long week.”
“I saw you on TV at the gala,” she says, ignoring the deflection. “You looked like a movie star. I told you that green is a good color for you. He looks at you like you’re the sun.”
The air catches in my throat, but I sit perfectly composed because I trained myself to.
“It’s good optics,” I manage, the words rough. “People respond to emotional storytelling.”
“Eso no es de lo que estoy hablando. I’m talking about you, mija. You look happy.”
It’s incredible how one word can unravel everything you are holding together.
“I was doing my job,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “That’s what you saw.”
“Mm.” She doesn’t buy it. She never does when it matters. “I know when you what your lying smile looks like. Ese no fue un ‘presentation smile.’”