Chapter 30
Breaking the Silence
Leo
The day starts wrong. A pale gray light filters through the blinds, cool and colorless, the kind that makes everything feel slightly off before a word is even spoken.
The air feels too still, the apartment too quiet, like the whole world’s holding its breath waiting for another blow.
Sage’s phone won’t stop buzzing on the counter, one alert after another lighting up her screen.
I don’t have to look to know it’s bad — I can hear it in the way she exhales, sharp and tight, like every new notification digs a little deeper.
She’s standing by the window, shoulders squared but tense. The early morning light hits her hair, turns it copper-gold, but there’s nothing warm about her expression. She doesn’t say anything when I reach for the phone — she just slides it toward me without looking up.
The headline glares back: The Chef Speaks — Inside Source Reveals Sage Winslow’s Side of the Story.
I scroll, jaw tightening as the words blur together.
It’s worse than last night’s mess. The article doesn’t just rehash her fallout with Grayson; it twists it, paints her as someone clawing for relevance, using her connection to me as her ticket back.
There’s even a photo — an old one from a team event, cropped close so it looks intimate. Convenient.
But what makes my stomach drop isn’t the speculation. It’s the details. My details.
The article mentions my conditioning routine. My post-game diet. Even the name of the private facility I’ve been using since the suspension. Those aren’t public. They’re from inside the Surge locker room.
I read the line again, slower this time. “Sources close to the team confirm the suspended captain continues to train privately under Surge supervision.” I feel my pulse thrum in my neck. Someone’s talking. Someone who wants this fire to spread.
Behind me, Sage’s voice comes quiet. “It’s from your team, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer right away. I scroll again, scanning for a name, a hint, anything that might give it away. Nothing. Whoever fed this knew exactly how to hide their tracks.
Finally, I set the phone down, my hand tight around it like it might break. “Yeah,” I mutter. “Someone inside.”
She turns then, eyes meeting mine. They’re tired — not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the kind that comes from fighting battles on too many fronts. “You think it’s Grayson?” she asks.
“Could be.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “Or one of the guys trying to earn points with management. Hell, maybe a reporter’s paying someone off. Doesn’t matter who. It’s personal now.”
Sage crosses her arms, lips pressing together. “You think this is about revenge.”
I shake my head. “No. It’s about control.” I glance back at the screen. “They don’t like that we stopped playing their game.”
For a beat, neither of us speaks. The morning light shifts, spilling across the countertop where her phone still buzzes, relentless. Every ping feels like a reminder — the world doesn’t stop just because we’re tired of fighting.
And I realize something else: this isn’t just her battle anymore. Whoever’s leaking information, they’re coming for both of us.
The rink is empty when I get there. It’s still early enough that the parking lot’s half-frozen and the morning fog clings to the boards, softening the edges of the place that’s been my second home for years. The kind of silence I used to crave. Now, it just feels wrong.
I push through the side entrance, the one the equipment staff leaves unlocked for off-hours training.
The smell hits me first—cold air, disinfectant, faint trace of sweat and tape.
It’s muscle memory, the way my hands find the locker, the stretch of laces between my fingers.
I shouldn’t even be here. Technically, suspended players aren’t supposed to use team facilities.
But nobody’s going to stop me. Not today.
I need to see it. Feel it. The ice has always been where I think best, where the noise fades and the truth gets clearer.
I skate hard laps until my legs burn, until the ache replaces everything else. Then I slow, breathing hard, listening to the echo of my blades in the empty arena. This is what they took from me — not just the games, but the rhythm. The purpose.
After another few minutes, I glide to a stop, leaning against the boards to catch my breath. My phone buzzes from the bench. I grab it, half expecting another headline, another leak. Instead, it’s a message from Coach: Stay sharp. We’re reviewing your reinstatement next week.
A flicker of something like hope stirs in my chest—but it dies quick. Because just down the hall, I hear laughter.
Familiar laughter.
Trevor Stein’s voice carries, that smug, nasal tone impossible to miss. “Guess not everyone can keep their focus when they’ve got celebrity chefs to impress.” A second voice—some local beat reporter, I think—laughs along.
I stand frozen for half a second, heart thudding. I know I shouldn’t move, shouldn’t give him what he wants. But my feet carry me toward the hallway anyway, slow and steady.
Their voices fade when I round the corner, but I catch the tail end of it—Trevor smirking, leaning against the wall, phone in hand. He meets my eyes, doesn’t even flinch. “Hey, Cap. Didn’t know you were allowed in here.”
I don’t answer. I just stare until the grin slips off his face. Until he shifts, suddenly too casual, pretending he’s not the kind of guy who’d sell out a teammate for a headline.
He says something under his breath as he walks away. I don’t catch the words, but the tone says enough.
The back of my neck burns. I tighten my grip on my phone, jaw locked. Maybe it’s not proof. But I’ve been in enough locker rooms to recognize a rat when I see one.
By the time I make it back to the apartment, the sun’s higher, throwing sharp light through the windows. Sage sits at the kitchen table with her laptop open, face lit by the glow of the screen. She’s typing fast, focused, a mug of untouched coffee beside her.
I toss my keys onto the counter. “You’re working already?”
“Drafting a post.” Her voice is calm, clipped. Controlled. “Claire called. She says the league’s monitoring everything now—sponsors too.”
I stop halfway to her, frowning. “So she wants you to hide?”
Sage shakes her head. “No. She wants me to play nice. Stay quiet, let it fade.” She looks up then, meeting my gaze. “But I’m not doing that again.”
There’s a steel edge in her voice, one I’ve only ever heard when she’s in a kitchen—when something’s gone wrong and she’s the only one who knows how to fix it. “If they’re going to use my name,” she says, “they’ll use my words.”
I lean against the counter, watching her fingers hover over the keyboard. “What are you writing?”
She hesitates for a beat, then turns the screen toward me.
It’s short, direct—Sage through and through.
‘I’ve worked too hard to be reduced to rumors.
I believe in owning your story. Mine is about food, health, and empowerment.
That’s where my focus stays.’ Below it, a simple photo of her in her chef whites, no makeup, eyes steady on the camera.
“It’s good,” I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “It’s…you.”
Her lips twitch in something like a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Claire’s going to hate it.”
“She’ll live.” I step closer, placing a hand on the back of her chair. “You sure about this?”
“I have to be.” She hits post before I can say another word.
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the fridge. Then the notifications start. Likes, shares, comments—rolling in fast. I see the first few before she closes the tab. Some supportive. Most not.
She leans back, exhaling through her nose. “Well,” she murmurs, “that’s done.”
I watch her for a long moment, pride and worry warring in my chest. She looks strong. Composed. But I know what it costs her to be that way.
And as her phone buzzes again, a new wave of attention already building, I can’t shake the thought—sometimes courage looks a lot like stepping straight into the fire.
By mid-afternoon, the world’s decided what it thinks of Sage’s post. Half the comments praise her for “class and composure.” The rest tear her apart. Opportunist. Drama magnet. One even calls her the Surge’s Yoko Ono.
She’s sitting beside me on the couch, scrolling through the noise like she’s immune, but I can see the tension in her jaw. Her shoulders rise and fall with every new notification. Every word lands, even if she won’t admit it.
The phone rings again. Sage glances at the screen, exhales, and answers. “Hey, Claire.”
Before she can switch it off speaker, Claire’s voice cuts through the room—sharp, controlled, all business. “You made your point, Sage, but you need to step back now.”
She must know I’m here; her tone shifts slightly, deliberate. “The league’s PR team is watching the engagement metrics, and so are Leo’s sponsors. Any misstep could make things worse for both of you.”
Sage meets my eyes, then sets the phone on speaker anyway. “I’m not deleting it,” she says, tone cool and final.
There’s a pause—a faint sigh, static across the line. “Then at least stay offline tonight,” Claire replies, softer now. “Let this settle before anyone fans the flames.”
The call ends with a polite click. Sage exhales, dropping the phone onto the coffee table. “She means well,” she says quietly. “But I’m not playing dead just because people are uncomfortable.”
I study her profile—the calm surface, the storm underneath. She doesn’t flinch when the comments light up again. I wish I could shield her from it, but I know that’s not what she wants from me. She doesn’t need protection. She needs partnership.
“You’re stronger than they deserve,” I say finally.
She glances at me, a wry smile ghosting across her lips. “You say that like you’re not in the same fire.”
I don’t answer right away. My phone’s been lighting up too—players, reporters, even Coach. But when her post started trending, I knew it wasn’t my story anymore. It’s ours.
Before I can reply, her phone buzzes again. Another alert. Her hand moves to grab it, but I see the look on her face before she even reads the words. Confusion, then dread.
“Leo,” she whispers, voice thin. “He’s live.”
I take the phone from her, my stomach already turning. The screen shows Grayson’s smirking face on a livestream, mic in hand, studio lights glinting off his slicked-back hair.
“Guess everyone’s got a recipe for success,” he says into the camera, smile lazy and poisonous. “Some just steal the ingredients.”
The sound of his voice hits me like a punch to the chest. Sage goes still beside me, her hand frozen midair.
It’s not just a jab—it’s a message.
He’s coming for us.