CHAPTER FIVE
NORA
Day Two
The internet decides I am either a gold digger, a saint, a liar, or an obstacle to playoff success.
By breakfast, strangers have found photographs from college, my old studio address, and a picture of me crying at Eli's memorial service. Someone draws a red circle around Rhett's hand on my waist and captions it PROOF SHE TRAPPED HIM.
Maren confiscates my phone.
"You cannot cross-examine anonymous people," she says.
"I can photograph their houses at unflattering angles."
"That is the first healthy impulse you've shown all morning."
Tessa arrives with foundation contracts and the expression of a woman carrying explosives.
Rhett's public statement is already online.
I read it from her tablet.
My wife, Nora Bennett Callahan, heard me describe our marriage as a mistake and her presence in my life as a distraction.
Those words were mine. They were cruel, dishonest, and indefensible.
Nora has never interfered with my career.
She has supported it at significant cost to her own.
Our decision to keep the marriage private became secrecy because I repeatedly placed commercial interests above her dignity.
I will not provide details about our relationship, but I will correct lies directed at her. The responsibility is mine alone.
There is no request for forgiveness.
No claim that I misunderstood.
No mention of Damon.
I read it twice.
"He wrote that?"
"Every word," Tessa says. "Legal tried to remove 'wife.' He put it back."
Maren takes the tablet. "Competent. Annoying."
Tessa slides a folder toward me. "NorthStar suspended his campaign. Rhett terminated Damon. The team has offered additional security for you and the foundation."
"Did he tell you to come?"
"No. He told me not to pressure you. I came because the first fundraiser is tomorrow and we need a plan."
The first event is an equipment drive at Bennett-Callahan Rink. Two hundred children are registered. Local cameras will be there. Donors expect both founders.
"Cancel the press," I say.
"We can restrict it but not eliminate it. The leak made the foundation part of the story. If both of you fail to appear, donors may interpret that as instability."
Maren taps the contract. "Four joint events over thirty days. After that, Nora can withdraw from public obligations without penalty."
Thirty days.
I can survive anything for thirty days. Grief taught me that time moves whether you cooperate or not.
"I want conditions," I say.
Maren's pen is ready before I finish the sentence.
Separate transportation.
No unscheduled contact.
No public touching unless safety requires it.
No questions about reconciliation.
All foundation communication through Tessa or Maren.
No gifts.
No grand gestures.
No use of children, donors, teammates, or media to influence me.
At the end of thirty days, Rhett signs whatever documents my attorney sends.
Tessa reads the page. "He will agree."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
Her certainty irritates me.
"Why?"
"Because he asked what you needed and did not argue when I said space. Rhett argues with weather."
I look away.
Tessa closes the folder. "One more thing. The team traced the leak to a freelance assistant hired by the documentary company. The original file is gone from their server, but copies are everywhere."
"Was Damon involved?"
"We don't know."
Maren says, "Find out before you accuse anyone."
Tessa nods.
After she leaves, I drive to my studio for the first time since the video spread. Two security officers wait outside, courtesy of the Breakers. I hate needing them. I hate being grateful.
Inside, the studio smells like paper and dust. My photographs cover one wall: youth players tying borrowed skates, mothers cheering behind scratched plexiglass, Rhett kneeling to speak with a shy eight-year-old boy.
In that image, Rhett is not a brand. He is simply a man who remembers what it was like to need equipment his family could not afford.
I loved him first for that.
Not the captaincy. Not the body that sells sportswear. Not the brutal grace of him on ice.
I loved the boy he never stopped trying to rescue in other children.
My phone rings from an unknown international number.
I answer because my life is already ruined; telemarketing cannot compete.
"Nora Bennett? This is Ingrid Dahl from Northern Light Media. We met in Oslo two years ago."
I sit straighter.
Ingrid produces award-winning sports documentaries. Two years ago, she offered me an assistant role on a project about women's hockey. I declined because the travel dates overlapped with Rhett's first captaincy season.
"I remember," I say.
"We are beginning a six-month project across Sweden, Finland, and Norway. Our lead still photographer withdrew. I saw your recent series from the community league. Are you available?"
My gaze lands on Rhett's photograph.
For eighteen months, every opportunity had to fit around a marriage no one was allowed to see.
"When would I leave?"
"Five weeks."
One week after the foundation campaign ends.
The universe has poor timing and a cruel sense of humor.
"Send me the contract," I say.