CHAPTER 2 #2
Lars walked to the table and looked at the television.
The panel had moved on to a montage of our public interactions over the years.
Every question I had asked him.
Every time he had looked at me too long.
Every clipped answer.
Every moment suddenly recast as flirtation, manipulation, or proof of conspiracy.
On-screen, a host said, “Could their apparent hostility have been part of an elaborate attempt to mislead the public?”
Lars picked up the remote and turned it off.
“I was watching that.”
“It is filth.”
“It is my life.”
“It is our life.”
“No. They’re not questioning your achievements.”
“They question everything I do.”
“Not like this.”
His face went still.
“No,” he said. “Not like this.”
The admission surprised me.
Lars had spent years acting as if racism were another opponent he could hit into the boards once someone pointed it out. He understood direct threats. He understood men who shouted things from arena seats and then ran when he confronted them.
He struggled with systems.
With polite smiles.
With people who called me articulate as though they had expected less.
With executives who praised diversity while looking past me in meetings.
I folded my arms.
“What are you going to say?”
“That you are my wife.”
“They know.”
“They do not understand.”
“What don’t they understand?”
“That I pursued you.”
My breath caught.
He continued before I could answer.
“That I proposed. That I asked you to keep the marriage private when I entered the league. That you never used me for access.”
“You cannot prove a negative.”
“I can tell them you refused every introduction I offered.”
“That will sound defensive.”
“I am defensive.”
“This is not about what you feel.”
His eyes darkened.
“It is entirely about what I feel.”
“That is exactly the problem. You’re going to stand in front of cameras, get angry, and make it look like I need my husband to validate my career.”
“You think I should remain quiet?”
“I think you should follow the team’s media strategy.”
“The team wants me to say we are effectively divorced.”
I went still.
He watched me carefully.
“What did you tell them?”
“No.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“It was my answer.”
I looked away.
He came closer.
“They drafted a statement,” he said. “A youthful marriage. Long-term separation. No meaningful personal relationship during your employment.”
The words should not have hurt.
They were technically close to the truth.
We had lived separately.
We rarely spoke.
Our relationship had not looked meaningful from the outside.
But hearing it reduced to approved language felt like watching someone prepare my marriage for burial.
“What do you want me to say?” he asked.
I looked up.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Do not call me that.”
“You want me to claim you.”
My chest tightened.
“This is not a fairy tale.”
“I know.”
“You cannot fix what happened by walking into a press conference and calling me your wife.”
“I can correct the lie that I was ashamed of you.”
“Were you?”
His entire body stilled.
The question hung between us.
I had never asked it directly.
Not during the secret hotel stays.
Not when he entered galas alone.
Not when magazines paired him with actresses and models because a married hockey star without a visible wife was apparently more believable than a faithful one.
Not when I watched him become famous beside women who looked nothing like me.
Lars stepped so close that the toes of his shoes nearly touched mine.
“No.”
His voice was quiet.
“You were the only thing in my life I was proud of.”
I swallowed.
“Then why did I always feel like the thing you had to hide?”
Pain moved across his face.
Before he could answer, his phone vibrated.
He checked it.
“We have to go.”
“I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I am suspended. Showing up beside you would look like coordination.”
“It is coordination.”
“Lars.”
He reached for my coat hanging by the door.
“I am not leaving you here.”
“I have security downstairs.”
“You have reporters downstairs.”
“I can handle reporters.”
“I know.”
The softness in his voice irritated me more than control would have.
He held out my coat.
“Come with me.”
“No.”
His expression hardened.
“Aaliyah.”
“You don’t get to order me around because someone discovered we share a marriage certificate.”
His grip tightened around the coat.
“No. I get to insist because someone threw a brick through your window, sent you threats, accessed sealed photographs, and called a private number from our college apartment.”
I stared at him.
That last part mattered.
The number had not been used in years.
Only a handful of people had known it.
Lars.
Me.
Naomi.
Two college friends.
Matteo.
And Graham West.
I took the coat.
“I’m going in my own car.”
“The garage is surrounded.”
“I’m not riding into your press conference like rescued cargo.”
His mouth flattened.
“You can ride in front.”
Despite myself, I laughed once.
His eyes softened.
It vanished too quickly.
Twenty minutes later, I sat beside him in the back of a black SUV while Boston blurred past the tinted windows.
Neither of us spoke.
His knee rested inches from mine.
His hand lay open on the seat between us.
I remembered that hand younger.
Unscarred.
Shaking as he slid a ring onto my finger outside a courthouse.
Now his knuckles were swollen from fighting.
His wedding band caught the morning light.
At the arena, the media entrance was chaos.
Satellite trucks lined the curb. Reporters stood behind steel barricades. Fans had gathered despite the hour, some holding Norsemen jerseys and signs.
One said:
FREE HALVORSEN
Another:
FIRE AALIYAH GRANT
A third showed a crude drawing of me on my knees in front of a hockey player.
Lars saw it.
His door opened.
I caught his wrist before he stepped out.
“Don’t.”
He looked at my hand.
Then at the sign.
“They should not be allowed to hold that.”
“They want you to react.”
“I am reacting.”
“Privately.”
His eyes met mine.
“I have been private for eight years.”
The security team formed a barrier as we exited.
The shouting began immediately.
“Aaliyah, did you sleep with players for sources?”
“Lars, were you paying her?”
“Are you still living together?”
“Did she cover up your suspensions?”
“Was your marriage a green-card arrangement?”
That one made no sense. Lars had been an American citizen since childhood.
Accuracy had never been important to cruelty.
Someone shouted a racial insult from the crowd.
It was muffled beneath other voices, but not enough.
I heard it.
Lars heard it too.
His body turned.
I grabbed the back of his coat.
“Keep walking.”
He looked over his shoulder.
The expression on his face made the nearest security officer step closer.
“Lars.”
He let me pull him forward.
Inside, Howard met us with the expression of a man whose blood pressure had become a legal concern.
“What is she doing here?”
“I have a name,” I said.
“Aaliyah should not be visible.”
Lars stopped.
Howard closed his eyes.
“I did not mean—”
“You said she should not be visible.”
“I mean from a crisis-management perspective.”
Lars took one step toward him.
“From this moment forward, choose every word carefully.”
Howard looked at me.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“The press room is full,” he said. “League representatives are on the call. Graham is waiting.”
At the mention of Graham, Lars’s face cooled.
We entered an executive conference room.
Graham West stood at the head of the table.
He was fifty-eight, silver-haired, broad through the chest, and perpetually calm. He had built his career by making intimidation feel like mentorship.
His eyes settled on me.
“Aaliyah.”
“Graham.”
“I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.”
“No, you’re not.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“I always appreciated your directness.”
“I’ve never appreciated your lies.”
Howard shut the door.
Graham looked at Lars.
“The league has approved the statement.”
“I have not.”
“The statement does not require your enthusiasm.”
“It requires my name.”
“You are under contract.”
“I am not property.”
Graham sighed.
“The marriage was concealed. Ms. Grant’s professional conduct is being questioned. Sponsors are asking whether the organization knowingly allowed a conflict of interest.”
“You did know,” I said.
Graham turned to me.
“We knew Lars had a private relationship.”
“You attended our wedding dinner.”
Howard’s head snapped toward him.
Graham did not blink.
“That was not an official team function.”
“You sent champagne.”
“I was fond of both of you.”
Lars’s eyes went cold.
“You knew the whole time.”
Graham ignored him.
“The goal is to prevent further damage. We characterize the marriage as functionally over. Aaliyah acted independently. Lars had no involvement in her reporting.”
“That last part is true,” I said.
Graham smiled.
“Then we agree.”
“No,” Lars said.
Graham’s patience thinned.
“Lars.”
“You want me to tell them she stopped being my wife because it protects the team.”
“It protects both of you.”
“It protects you.”
The room went still.
Graham studied him.
“Be careful.”
“Why?”
“Because anger may be marketable on the ice, but it is less charming in a boardroom.”
Lars stepped toward the door.
Howard blocked him.
“The press is waiting.”
“Good.”
Graham’s voice sharpened.
“You will read the statement exactly as written.”
Lars looked back at me.
For one second, I saw the college boy beneath the bruises.
The one who had stood outside a courthouse and promised I would never regret choosing him.
Then he opened the door.
The press room erupted when we entered.
I remained near the side wall.
Lars took the podium.
Howard placed the approved statement in front of him.
Camera shutters clicked rapidly.
Lars looked down at the paper.
Then he tore it in half.
Howard made a strangled sound.
Graham went motionless behind the curtain.
Lars adjusted the microphone.
“My name is Lars Halvorsen.”
The room quieted.