CHAPTER 1 #2
“That’s not possible.”
“My sister. Two friends. The county archive.”
More posts appeared.
Clips.
Threads.
Screenshots of old articles I had written about the Norsemen.
A video commentator with perfect hair and a delighted expression said, “This raises serious ethical questions about Aaliyah Grant’s career and whether she obtained privileged access through her relationship with Halvorsen.”
Another post read:
So she wasn’t a journalist. She was a puck bunny with a press pass.
Another:
Imagine how many locker rooms she crawled through before she landed the rich white one.
Another:
Diversity hire turned professional bed warmer. Classic.
My stomach turned.
The replies moved faster than I could read them.
Pictures of me from television appearances were placed beside pornographic images of Black women.
People dissected my face, my body, my clothes.
They called me calculating.
Aggressive.
Ghetto.
A gold digger.
A quota hire.
One account posted a racial slur with enough letters replaced by symbols to keep the platform from automatically removing it.
Another did not bother disguising the sentiment at all.
Of course he kept her secret. You don’t bring that kind home to Norway.
I stopped breathing.
Lars took the phone from my hand.
His eyes moved across the screen.
I watched the transformation happen.
The muscles in his jaw locked.
His face emptied.
Lars’s anger was never loud at first.
It went quiet.
That was when people should have been afraid.
“Give it back,” I said.
He kept scrolling.
Someone had uploaded an old photograph of me standing outside a locker room and captioned it:
She was interviewing them horizontally.
Another claimed I had slept with three players for sources.
Another said no Black woman reached my position without getting on her knees for someone.
Lars’s thumb stopped.
The phone creaked in his grip.
“Lars.”
He handed it back carefully.
Howard was speaking rapidly into his phone now.
“No comment until we approve language. Shut down every scheduled interview. Call legal. Call the league.”
Lars looked at him.
“Who leaked it?”
Howard covered the phone. “We don’t know.”
“Find out.”
“Right now, we need containment.”
My phone rang again.
Rebecca Sloan.
My editor.
I answered.
“Aaliyah.” Rebecca’s voice was tight. “Tell me this isn’t real.”
I looked at Lars.
He was watching me with a terrible, focused stillness.
“It’s real.”
“You’re married to Lars Halvorsen.”
“Yes.”
“For eight years.”
“Yes.”
“And you never disclosed this to me.”
“I have never covered him directly.”
“You cover the league.”
“I recused myself from every story involving his conduct, contracts, suspensions, and personal profile.”
“You interviewed him today.”
“At a public press conference.”
Rebecca breathed sharply. “Do you understand what this looks like?”
I looked down at the comments still multiplying beneath the photograph.
“Yes,” I said. “I understand exactly what it looks like.”
“We are placing you on immediate administrative suspension pending an ethics review.”
The words struck harder than I expected.
“You know my work.”
“I know this is a catastrophic conflict of interest.”
“It was not a conflict in the stories I reported.”
“That determination is no longer yours to make.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Rebecca—”
“I need your credentials surrendered by morning. Do not publish anything. Do not contact sources. Do not speak publicly until legal advises you.”
Then she ended the call.
For a few seconds, I stared at the blank screen.
Lars stepped closer.
“What did she say?”
“It’s handled.”
“Aaliyah.”
“I said it’s handled.”
Howard lowered his phone. “Lars, Graham is asking whether the marriage is active.”
Lars turned slowly.
“What?”
“For the statement. We can characterize it as a youthful mistake, long-term separation, effectively dissolved—”
“No.”
Howard blinked. “No?”
“No statement.”
“We have to say something.”
“Then say she is my wife.”
The corridor went silent.
Howard’s lips parted. “That may not be strategically wise.”
“I did not ask for strategy.”
“The team needs clarity on the status of the relationship.”
Lars’s gaze shifted to me.
There it was.
The question we had avoided for three years.
We lived in different cities.
We spoke through lawyers when property needed handling.
We had not shared a bed in eleven months, and that single night had ended with me leaving before dawn.
We had never filed for divorce.
Never divided the accounts.
Never sold the apartment in Minneapolis.
Never removed the emergency-contact designations.
His name was still beside mine on every legal document that mattered.
But active?
What did active mean when a marriage remained alive only because neither person had been brave enough to kill it?
Howard looked at me. “Ms. Grant?”
I lifted my chin.
“We are legally married.”
Lars’s expression hardened.
Howard nodded quickly. “Legally. Fine. We’ll emphasize the separation.”
“No,” Lars said again.
Howard looked close to losing his mind. “You just heard her.”
“I heard my wife.”
The word landed like a hand closing around my throat.
Howard glanced between us. “Lars, the public needs a coherent explanation.”
“The public is not entitled to one.”
“They are questioning her credibility.”
“They are calling her a whore.”
His voice remained quiet.
Howard flinched anyway.
Lars stepped toward him.
“They are publishing slurs about my wife while your organization discusses strategy.”
“We cannot control social media.”
“You can control your response.”
“This is not the moment to make demands.”
Lars leaned in.
“This is the only moment.”
I put a hand against his chest.
It was instinct.
His body stopped immediately beneath my palm.
Howard noticed.
Of course he did.
Everyone always noticed how quickly Lars obeyed me. That was one reason we had worked so hard never to be seen together.
“Don’t,” I said.
Lars looked down at my hand.
Then at me.
“They fired you.”
“They suspended me.”
“For being married to me.”
“For not disclosing it.”
“You should not have had to.”
“That isn’t how journalism works.”
“I don’t care how journalism works.”
“I do.”
His eyes flashed.
“I know.”
The words were rougher than anger.
They carried history.
The missed anniversaries.
The hotel rooms.
The conversations whispered after midnight because no one could know we were in the same city.