Chapter 25
High Stakes
Riley
The front steps of my building are a crime scene of microphones.
They sprout from fists and selfie sticks and extendable poles like weeds after rain—black foam heads, red network flags, a forest of hungry mouths.
Flashes go off and the world stutters in white frames.
My pupils can’t keep up. Neither can my patience.
“Riley! Over here—conflict of interest?”
“Trainer sleeping with her own player—comment?”
“Are you pregnant?”
I keep walking. Jaw set. Bag strap cutting into my shoulder.
I’ve taped guys’ ankles through boos that sounded nicer than this.
The rain last night scrubbed the air clean; the street still smells like wet concrete and fryer oil from the diner on the corner.
I fix on the smell like it’s a point on the horizon and put one foot in front of the other.
“Riley, smile?” someone calls, like that’s the currency. Another shouts, “Blink twice if it’s true,” and laughter skitters. I don’t blink at all.
My phone vibrates steady as a heartbeat in my pocket.
I don’t need to look to know it’s a stack of alerts eating itself.
I thumb it open anyway while I walk, more muscle memory than choice, and the screen floods with blue-white.
I open Notes and type a line I’ve drafted in a dozen versions since I graduated undergrad: Committed to the highest professional standards…
I stop. Delete the whole thing. Our rule from last night—both of us or neither—sits heavy and right in my chest. I will not perform my innocence.
A camera pivots too close and clips my elbow. Pain zings; I suck in a breath and taste adrenaline. “Back up,” I say without looking, trainer voice that stops twenty-year-old millionaires in their tracks. It doesn’t do much to a man with a day rate and a deadline.
Then a small, furious comet slams into my flank.
“Move,” Sophie says, all five feet and two inches of her wielding a tote bag like a weapon.
She shoulder-checks a lens out of my path with the casual grace of someone who’s been told no her whole life and learned to make a door anyway.
“You don’t get to crowd her on her own stoop.
You want a quote? Try this: Get a hobby. ”
Someone laughs; someone else snarls. A microphone grazes my cheek and Sophie smacks it away with the back of her hand. “Hands to yourselves,” she snaps, not breaking stride. “You touch her and I’ll have your press badge laminated to my shoe.”
Breath returns to my lungs in actual, usable pieces. “You didn’t have to come,” I tell her as she bulldozes a path to the curb.
“I absolutely did,” she says. “You think I’m letting you run the tunnel alone today?
Cute.” She whistles and an Uber angles out of traffic like she summoned it.
She wrenches the back door open, plants a palm between my shoulder blades, and shoves me inside with more love than finesse.
“Facility,” she tells the driver, flashing a smile that could sell a thousand season tickets and also your soul.
The door thunks shut. The sudden quiet of the car is absurd—a padded room after a riot. My hands finally notice they’re shaking. I flatten them on my knees like I’m smoothing a jersey onto fresh ice.
Sophie dives in after me, breathless, curls escaping her bun. She slams the lock button with a decisive click and twists around to glare through the glass. “Vultures,” she mutters. Then to me, softer: “Hey. Eyes here.”
I drag my gaze from the swarm to her face. She squeezes my fingers once, hard. “You’re okay,” she says. “We’re okay. You breathe, I text PR that we’re inbound, and if anyone tries you in the lobby I will body-check them into a potted fern.”
I huff a laugh that surprises both of us. “Make it the ugly fern.”
“Oh, I’m aiming for the one that’s been dying since 2019.” She leans back as the car pulls away from the curb, the press shrinking in the rear window to a blur of plastic rain covers and ambition. “Heads up, Lane—today’s a skate. Keep your edges.”
I nod. I can do edges. I can do breath. I can do one hallway, then the next. Outside, cameras flash like lightning in a storm we didn’t schedule. Inside, I count to four, hold for two, and let go on six as the city slides by toward the fight waiting at the facility.
The Uber rolls to the curb outside the facility, and the building looks like it always does—steel, glass, a lobby fern that truly is clinging to life out of spite. Familiarity should calm me; instead it feels like skating onto fresh ice with dull blades.
Sophie is out first, scanning the sidewalk like a secret service agent in leggings. She tucks her badge lanyard under her jacket, takes my elbow, and hustles me through the revolving door.
The lobby swallows us—scent of floor cleaner, the low hiss of the espresso machine at the café stand, the badge gate’s red-green wink. For one breath, I’m just an employee walking into work.
“Riley.” PR materializes out of a glass conference room like they’ve been waiting behind two-way mirror.
Jessie—our PR manager—has a folder clutched in her hands and an apologetic smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
Behind her trails a junior associate with a tablet open and a pen poised like we’re inking history.
“Can we grab five minutes?” Jessie asks, already steering me toward a side alcove lined with team photos. The one of Jason mid-celebration is huge. It watches me walk. Sophie plants herself at my shoulder like an extra spine.
“We can take three,” I say. My voice is steady; my palms are slick enough to leave ghost prints on the folder if I touched it.
Jessie opens the manila and slides a single-page draft onto the narrow ledge beneath the photos. “Holding language. Nothing accusatory. Just clarity. You sign; we send to the beat writers and post a summary to socials. It’ll help calm things.”
I read. My pulse ticks up. The words look neutral if you don’t know how to read PR. I do. Regret any confusion. Committed to professionalism. Have chosen to recuse myself from current duties to avoid the appearance of impropriety. The phrasing is a scalpel—it cuts without blood.
“This implies wrongdoing,” I say. “It says ‘appearance’ and ‘regret’ in the same breath. It says I’m stepping back by choice, which makes the suspension you’re about to hand me look like a noble gesture.”
Jessie winces. “It says you’re a team player.”
“It says I’m guilty,” I counter. “Without recourse.” I keep my tone level. The trick is to sound like you’re discussing a rehab plan, not a reputation. “I’m not signing this without counsel.”
The junior PR’s pen pauses, mid-hover. Jessie’s smile thins. “Riley, legal is looped. We can finesse—”
“With my lawyer,” I say, and hear Jason in my head—both of us or neither of us—even as I stand here alone. “Until then, my public statement is no statement.”
Sophie makes an approving hmm that sounds like she’s savoring a good pastry. “You heard the lady,” she says, leaning one elbow on the ledge and crowding the paper an inch back toward PR. “No unsupervised signatures.”
Jessie glances toward the badge gate like she wants backup to materialize out of turnstiles. “We’re just trying to protect you, Riley.”
“I know,” I say, and I mean it. Most days we’re on the same side. Today we’re not. “Protect me by telling the truth. Say I’m a valued employee under review with full due process. Say any harassment of staff will be reported. Say nothing else.”
Jessie exhales, capitulating but not happy. “Let me take this upstairs.” She gathers the paper but not before I lay two fingers on the corner and feel the weight of what almost became my voice. I let go.
As we turn toward the gates, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t have to look to know it’s another anonymous number or a DM from a stranger who thinks ethics is a sport they can win in my comments. I silence it. Shoulders back. Badge out.
“Two minutes to spare,” Sophie murmurs. “We are an efficiency machine.”
I swipe my badge. The gate chirps green, then red, like it can’t decide how it feels about me. The guard’s eyes flick from my face to the screen, sympathy soft around the edges. I nod, because we all have jobs to do.
The elevator doors slide open. I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls—ponytail tight, eyes tired, mouth set.
I straighten my collar, square my shoulders, and rehearse professionalism out loud: “Good morning, team.” “Let’s focus on treatment plans.
” “No, I can’t discuss anything unrelated to player care.
” The lines sit in my mouth like tongue depressors—awkward, necessary.
Sophie bumps my hip with hers. “You’ve got this,” she says. “And if anyone asks for a quote, I’m prepared to deploy the fern.”
I snort, breath loosening just enough to be useful. The elevator chimes the training floor. Doors part to a corridor lined with framed jerseys and the low hum of gossip waiting to happen. I step out and let my heels announce me before my voice does.
The corridor smells like eucalyptus gel and laundry steam. The jerseys on the wall watch with fixed smiles while real faces try not to. Conversations dip, then rearrange into innocuous shapes as I pass—weather, sticks, playoffs—like I don’t know the sound of gossip putting on a different hat.
“Morning,” I say to the room at large, trainer-neutral. “Treatment board updates in five.” My voice doesn’t crack. Victory.
A pair of rookies at the far end snap their eyes to their laces so fast I’m surprised they don’t sprain a retina. One of them mumbles, “Morning, Ms. Lane,” like I’m a vice principal and he’s late for chem. Good. Fear me for the right reasons.