Chapter 26
Under Fire
Leo
The conference room feels colder than the rink.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, white and sterile.
The long table stretches between me and the row of people deciding my fate—executives, PR reps, a league official with a pen poised like a weapon.
My reflection stares back from the glossy tabletop: stone-faced, jaw locked, every muscle coiled tight.
Claire leans in before the meeting starts, her voice a whisper meant for me alone. “Stick to the facts. No emotion. No Sage.”
My throat tightens. “Got it.”
The double doors close with a soft click. The sound feels final.
A man in a navy suit clears his throat, flipping through his notes like he already knows how this will end.
“Mr. Voss,” he begins, voice smooth, professional.
“We’re here to discuss the altercation that took place in the parking garage two nights ago.
Surveillance footage, eyewitness statements, and recent media coverage have raised questions about your conduct. ”
I clasp my hands on the table to keep them steady. “Understood.”
“Let’s be clear,” another exec cuts in. “This isn’t about one incident. It’s about a pattern.” He leans back, eyes sharp. “Fights on the ice. Confrontations off it. Headlines you seem to collect faster than goals.”
The comment lands like a body check. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. Claire’s warning rings in my head: No emotion.
“I take responsibility for my actions,” I say evenly. “But I don’t start fights. I finish them when someone crosses a line.”
“Whose line?” the man asks, voice dripping with condescension. “Yours?”
The question hangs there, bait disguised as formality. I force myself to breathe slow, deliberate.
Another official slides a document toward me. “Do you deny that you physically confronted Grayson Locke?”
The name burns, but I don’t let it show. “No.”
“Do you deny threatening him verbally?”
I meet his gaze. “No.”
“Then tell us, Mr. Voss—why?”
Because he dragged the woman I love into the spotlight—turned her name into a weapon and her silence into headlines.
Because he doesn’t know when to stop, not when there’s power in watching someone flinch.
Because every time her picture flashes on a screen, I see the fear she hides behind that steady voice, and I hate that I’m part of it.
I love her. I haven’t said it out loud—not to her, not to anyone—but it’s there, pulsing under my ribs like a bruise I can’t protect. She’s the first thing that steadies me and the last thing that could break me. And I’m one bad headline away from losing it all—from losing her.
But none of that belongs in this room. Not with the suits who measure worth in sponsorships and damage control. So I bury it, deep. I let the words calcify behind my teeth until what’s left is something the league can stomach.
“He provoked me,” I say evenly. “I reacted. Poorly.”
The smug exec across from me smirks. “You’re becoming more headline than player, Mr. Voss.”
The words slice deep, but I swallow the anger, gripping the table edge until my knuckles ache. Sage’s voice flashes through my head: Don’t let him win.
So I don’t. I look the man straight in the eye and say nothing.
The silence stretches long enough to make them shift in their seats.
Claire steps in smoothly, redirecting. “Mr. Voss understands the gravity of the situation. He’s here to cooperate fully with the league and the team.”
It’s the kind of line that sounds good in a headline. The kind I’ve learned to live with.
When the meeting adjourns, I stand. My legs feel heavy, but my hands? Steady. For now.
Claire catches up to me in the hallway, heels clicking fast against the tile. “You did what you needed to,” she says, shoving a folder into my hands. “Next step is PR containment. We control what goes out before someone else does.”
“Translation?” I ask, still walking.
“Translation—you keep your mouth shut. No comments, no interviews, no social media. We’ll release a joint statement through the Surge.”
I stop, turning to face her. “And what happens if that’s not enough?”
She exhales, rubbing her temple. “Best case, you get fined and slapped with a mandatory PR rehab program. Worst case—‘conduct detrimental’ suspension.”
The words hit harder than they should. Suspension. Like a guillotine hanging over my season.
Claire lowers her voice. “Look, Leo, I know how this looks. But this isn’t the end of your career. We can fix this.”
“Fix it?” I echo, jaw tightening. “By pretending it’s not happening?”
“By being smarter than the people waiting for you to snap.” She steps closer, voice softening. “You walk out of here angry, they win. You keep your head down, you live to fight another day.”
I run a hand through my hair, staring past her toward the frosted glass doors at the end of the hall. Cameras flash faintly outside, a swarm of vultures waiting to feed.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “Fight another day.”
She looks relieved, which tells me she doesn’t hear the way my tone curdles around the word fight.
We exit the building together, but she peels off toward her car before we reach the sidewalk. The second she’s gone, the sound hits me—the chaotic buzz of reporters, the shouted questions, the pop of camera shutters.
“Leo! Over here!” “Voss, care to comment on the review?” “Is the relationship real or just PR damage control?”
I keep my head down, walking fast, jaw clenched. Microphones shove toward me, flashes bursting white behind my eyelids. Every instinct screams to bark back, to tell them exactly what I think—but Claire’s words anchor me: Be smarter.
Then I hear a voice that cuts through the chaos.
“Leo!”
Anya. Not as a reporter this time, just… Anya. No camera crew, no recorder in hand. She steps in front of me, forcing me to stop.
“The article was garbage,” she says quietly, eyes searching mine. “You know that, right?”
I nod once, the tension in my chest easing by a fraction. “Yeah. I know.”
She hesitates. “You don’t have to say anything, but… you should know some of us still see the truth.”
I want to thank her. I don’t. I just give her a small nod before brushing past, my voice low. “Appreciate it.”
By the time I make it to my truck, my pulse is hammering again. The cameras keep flashing in the rearview mirror until I hit the street.
And for the first time, I don’t feel relief when they disappear. I just feel empty.
The apartment is dark when I step inside, the kind of dark that feels deliberate. Sage’s pacing in front of the window, the city’s glow cutting sharp lines across her face. Her phone’s on the counter, screen lighting up with notifications she’s ignoring.
When she sees me, she stops. “How bad was it?”
I drop my keys into the bowl by the door. “Bad enough.”
Her voice softens. “They’re blaming you, aren’t they?”
“They always do.” I run a hand over my face, trying to scrub the day off my skin. “Suspension’s on the table. Best case, fine and PR rehab.”
Her lips part, the guilt written all over her. “They’re coming after you because of me.”
I step closer, shaking my head. “No. They’re coming after me because of him. Because he knows how to get under my skin.”
Her eyes flicker up to mine. “Grayson.” The name tastes bitter in her mouth. “He’s not going to stop, is he?”
“No.” I reach for her, my hands finding her face, thumbs brushing the edge of her jaw. “But neither am I.”
Her breath catches. “Leo…”
“I mean it,” I say, my voice low, rough around the edges. “You’re the only thing keeping me from losing it completely. You’re the only part of this that still makes sense.”
Her eyes glisten in the dim light, but she doesn’t look away. “You can’t fight him every time he swings.”
I shake my head. “If I don’t, he wins.”
“Not everything’s a fight,” she whispers, but the tremor in her voice betrays her own fear.
“Maybe not for you,” I say, brushing my thumb down her cheek. “But for me, it always has been.”
For a second, the air between us feels like it did that first night—charged, impossible. She leans into my touch but doesn’t speak. I can feel her heart racing beneath my fingertips.
Then my phone buzzes.
The vibration cuts through the quiet. I glance down, already expecting another headline or message from Claire. But it’s an unknown number.
One line.
You should’ve stayed in your lane, Voss. See you Saturday.
My stomach drops.
Grayson.