Chapter 33
Momentum Swing
Sage
Morning light slips through the blinds, soft and gold, painting stripes across the kitchen table. The world outside feels deceptively calm, but my pulse is anything but. My coffee’s gone cold beside me, ignored as I scroll through Anya Lopez’s article on my phone for the second—no, third—time.
Inside the Locker Room Leaks: What the Surge Never Saw Coming.
Even the headline feels like a jolt to the system.
Every line that follows lands harder. Anya didn’t hold back—screenshots, quotes, timestamps, the receipts people always demand but never expect to actually see.
She lays it all out: the leak from inside the Surge, the coordination with Grayson’s PR team, the deliberate smear campaigns.
Trevor’s name is right there, printed in bold.
My stomach twists as I scroll past the section about Leo—the private training details, the whispers about his suspension.
The words that have haunted both of us for weeks.
Anya connects every breadcrumb back to one source.
Every rumor, every quote, every story that turned Leo into a villain came from the same place.
Trevor. And Grayson.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to keep reading. The comments section is already a wildfire—half outrage, half disbelief. Fans who once worshiped Grayson are suddenly questioning everything. People are angry, but for once, not at Leo. Not at me.
The sound of footsteps pulls my attention from the screen. Leo’s in sweats and a T-shirt, hair still damp from a shower, jaw set like he hasn’t decided if this is relief or another kind of storm.
“Did you see it?” I ask quietly.
He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah.” He grabs a mug, fills it halfway, then leans against the counter beside me. His phone is face down, but I can tell from the tension in his shoulders he’s been scrolling too. “They’ll spin it,” he mutters. “They always do.”
I set my phone down and reach out, laying a hand between his shoulder blades. The muscle there’s tight, coiled. “Maybe,” I say, my voice steady even if I don’t feel it. “But this time, the truth came from someone else’s mouth, not ours. That matters.”
He doesn’t answer, just exhales slowly, staring out the window like he’s trying to see tomorrow from here. His reflection in the glass looks older somehow—worn, but not broken. There’s something different in his eyes, too. Not just anger. Something close to hope.
The coffee maker clicks off behind us, a final little hiss of steam. I glance down at my phone again, at the screen that’s already refreshing with new headlines and retweets. Grayson caught feeding media. Surge locker room mole exposed. Redemption story incoming?
For the first time in a long time, the noise doesn’t feel like fire. It feels like air. Like space opening up where something new can finally grow.
By midmorning, the story’s everywhere. Every sports network, every trending page, every comment thread. The same people who dissected Leo’s career like vultures are suddenly dissecting Grayson’s downfall instead. It’s almost surreal.
I scroll through one last article and finally set my phone down, trying to let my brain catch up with the world. The apartment hums with quiet—the kind that feels heavy, waiting. Leo’s sitting across from me at the table, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.
“They’re actually turning on him,” I say softly. “His sponsors, the PR firm—none of them have made statements. It’s been hours.”
Leo doesn’t look up right away. His fingers drum against his thigh, slow and restless. “Doesn’t mean it’s over,” he mutters. “Guys like him always find a way to come out clean.”
He says it like it’s a fact, but his voice betrays the smallest thread of disbelief. Hope, maybe, fighting its way back through the cracks.
I stand and walk behind him, sliding my hands over his shoulders. The muscles there are still taut, but the edges have softened. He leans forward slightly, a small surrender that tells me the fight’s not eating him alive—for once.
“They can spin all they want,” I whisper near his ear. “But the truth is louder now.”
He lets out a long breath and covers one of my hands with his, anchoring it there. “You really believe that?”
“I have to,” I say. “Because believing otherwise means they win.”
For a moment, the quiet between us feels lighter. The air shifts. I can see it in the way his shoulders drop, the way his gaze finally lifts to meet mine. His eyes are still stormy, but there’s a glint of something steady underneath. Resolve.
Then his phone buzzes on the table.
He picks it up without thinking—and freezes. The screen lights up with a message from Coach Brooks: Cleared for return. You’re starting tomorrow night.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until he looks up at me, eyes wide, like he’s waiting for confirmation that it’s real.
“Leo,” I whisper, smiling even as my heart lodges in my throat. “You’re back.”
He blinks once, then lets out a breath that sounds half like a laugh and half like relief. His hand finds mine again, gripping tight. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I am.”
And just like that, the tide turns for real.
The rest of the day unfolds in soft motion—steady, deliberate, like the world knows not to rush this.
Leo spends hours in the living room, laptop open, headphones on, reviewing game footage.
Every so often, I catch him murmuring plays under his breath, miming a pass or shifting his stance, muscle memory already coming back to life.
I stay in the kitchen, meal-prepping containers of grilled chicken, rice, and greens for the team. It’s rhythmic, grounding—knife against cutting board, steam from the stove, the quiet thump of containers lining up on the counter. For once, the noise around us feels purposeful.
Every so often, our paths cross. My hand brushes his when I set a container beside his laptop. He murmurs thanks without looking up, but there’s a faint curve to his mouth that wasn’t there before. The tension between us hums, but it’s softer now. Warm instead of volatile.
As the sun starts to dip behind the skyline, Leo pulls off his headphones and leans back with a groan. “God, I missed this,” he says. “The routine. The build-up before a game.” He glances toward the kitchen. “You think it’s weird that I’m nervous?”
I wipe my hands on a towel and lean against the counter, smiling. “You’re human. Not a machine. Nerves just mean you still care.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s memorizing the way I said it. Then he stands, crossing the room to where I’m standing. The air shifts again—the quiet intimacy of two people who’ve been through fire and somehow came out standing.
“I don’t know what happens tomorrow,” he says quietly. “But knowing you’ll be there…it changes everything.”
My throat tightens. “Win or lose, I’ll be in the stands.”
He steps closer, brushing a thumb over my cheek, voice low and certain. “Then I’ve already won.”
The words hit somewhere deep. I lean into his touch, heart steadying with his. For the first time in what feels like forever, tomorrow doesn’t terrify me.
It feels like possibility.