12. Graham #2
“The dam is breaking,” he said. “Board the jet, flash the teeth for the lenses in New York, and I’ll deal with the GM myself. I can still protect your captaincy.”
There it was.
Months ago, that word would have ended the argument.
Captain.
The stitched letter had once been proof that every freezing shift, every bad apartment, and every dollar Riley scraped together for his equipment had been worth it. Somewhere along the way, he had started treating it as permission to put everything else second.
Now Riley’s bandage pulled against his skin as his shoulders tightened.
Graham released his grip on the chair.
“You think that’s supposed to scare me?”
Miller stopped pacing. “Losing the captaincy should scare you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You spent your whole career building toward that.”
“I spent my whole marriage pretending that was the same as building a life.”
Nicolle folded her arms. “Oh, spare us. You’re standing in a roadside dump playing martyr because your wife finally stopped applauding.”
Miller turned on her. “Let me handle him.”
“Your handling is why we’re standing here.”
Graham looked at Miller. “Burn the captaincy, Miller, and tell the brand to shred the paperwork. I am not boarding that flight.”
For once, Miller had no immediate answer. His gaze dropped toward the floor, then returned to Graham with the exhausted look of a man who had run out of incentives.
Nicolle had not.
She stepped closer, her coat brushing the side of the chair where Graham had left his shirt. “You have a severe misunderstanding of your leash, Graham. You don’t get to void a nine-figure launch so you can play in the dirt with shoes.”
Graham studied her face.
She still thought he belonged to them.
Nicolle held his stare. A slow, deliberate smile crossed her face. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone.
“What are you smiling about?” Graham asked.
“You really should stop assuming you’re the only person capable of making a decision.”
Her thumb moved over the screen. Then she turned the phone toward him.
Graham dropped his gaze to the screen.
Riley stood on the Copper Shank loading dock beneath the Georgia sun, caught mid-conversation beside the open bay.
Her work apron covered the front of her clothes.
One hand rested near the curve of her pregnancy while the shop stretched behind her, recognizable down to the freight entrance and the faded sign beside the doors.
A location tag sat below the photograph.
Copper Shank Bootmakers.
A draft waited underneath, ready for publication. At the base of the screen, the “Post” button remained untouched beneath Nicolle’s thumb.
“Where did you get that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Delete it.”
Nicolle tilted the screen away before he could get any closer. “One click kills the embargo. You’ll have the entire global sports press corps barricading this dirt road before you even wake up tomorrow.”
Miller stepped forward. “Put the phone away.”
Nicolle kept her attention on Graham.
“I highly doubt your pregnant wife is going to appreciate a fleet of camera drones circling her roof.”
The room seemed smaller with every word.
Graham stared at the location tag rather than Nicolle’s face.
Copper Shank had become the first place Riley could work without his name hanging over the door.
Mac had given her a job. The town had given her privacy.
She had built a life there while he was still smiling under studio lights.
Now his world had found the address.
Miller stepped into her line of sight. “Are you out of your mind? Put that phone down right now, Nicolle. We aren’t using his family as leverage to save a campaign.”
“Move.”
“Not until you kill that draft.”
“Stay out of this, Miller.”
Graham’s attention shifted to the bodyguard in the doorway.
He could take the phone.
At least, he could try.
The man at the door had thirty pounds on him, maybe more, and Graham’s shoulders were wrecked from the presses.
Even if he got past him and tore the device out of Nicolle’s hand, what then?
The photograph had come from somewhere. The PI had found Riley, which meant someone else could have the same file sitting on another screen in another city.
Breaking one phone would not make the picture disappear.
Nicolle stepped sideways so Miller no longer blocked her view of Graham. “This campaign secures my payout, and I refuse to lose it. You can either walk out to that car, Graham, or watch me expose her hideout.”
Miller turned toward Graham. “Don’t give her anything. We can call legal. We can shut this down.”
“And while legal makes calls?” Graham asked.
Miller said nothing.
That was answer enough.
Riley had spent months carving out a life beyond the reach of the NHL circus. One post could bring the same reporters who had shoved her against barriers straight to the loading dock. They would photograph her going to work. Follow her back to the loft. Ask about the divorce. Ask about the baby.
Saying no didn’t matter anymore, not after Nicolle had found a way to make Riley pay for it.
Graham looked again at the phone.
Nicolle thought New York was the leash.
Maybe it was the opposite.