Page 62 of The Hockey Pact

"Fuck," I muttered, scrolling quickly through the article. A second-tier sports blog had published the photos along with a detailed account of our "business arrangement." The mainstream sports outlets were already picking it up, adding their own speculation and reaching out for comment.

My phone rang—Diane, of course. Before I could answer, Coach Evans caught my eye from across the ice.

"Problem, Matthews?" he called, his expression making it clear that whatever it was could wait.

"No, Coach," I replied automatically, shoving the phone back in my pocket and grabbing my stick. I'd deal with this disaster after practice.

By the time I reached the locker room, my phone had accumulated dozens of missed calls and messages. Most were from reporters, but several teammates had texted variations of "What the hell?" and "Call me."

I bypassed them all to call Riley.

"Hey," she answered immediately, her voice tight with tension. "I guess you've seen it."

"Just the headline and main photo," I confirmed, keeping my voice low. "Are you okay?"

"I've had better mornings," she admitted with a hollow laugh. "Zoe's fielding calls atHat Trick—apparently we're the hottest reservation in town now that we're scandal-adjacent. Everyone wants to gawk at the gold-digger chef."

Her attempt at humor couldn't disguise the pain in her voice.

"You're not—"

"I know," she cut me off, her voice softening. "But that's the narrative they're spinning. The struggling restaurateur who seduced the hockey star for financial gain."

I leaned my forehead against the cool metal of my locker, wishing I could teleport to her side. "Vincent came through on his threat."

"It looks that way." There was a pause, then, "Diane's called a meeting at her office in an hour. Can you make it?"

"I'll be there," I promised. "Just... hang in there, okay? We'll figure this out."

"Okay," she said, but the uncertainty in her voice made my chest ache.

After a quick shower, I dodged reporters camped outside the practice facility by using a service exit. When I arrived at Diane's office, Riley was already there, pale but composed in jeans and aHat Trickhoodie, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that emphasized the tension in her face.

She stood when I entered, and without thinking, I crossed the room and pulled her into my arms. She melted against me with a shuddering sigh, her fingers curling into the fabric of my jacket.

"I'm sorry," I murmured into her hair. "This is all my fault."

She pulled back to look at me, eyes fierce despite their redness. "It's not. It was a mutual decision, remember? We're in this together."

Diane cleared her throat from behind her desk, her expression sympathetic but focused. "If you two are finished with the touching reunion, we need to discuss damage control."

We sat side by side on the couch in Diane's office, close enough that our shoulders touched. I found myself unable to stop looking at Riley, searching for signs of how badly this was affecting her.

"Our options are limited but clear," Diane explained, sliding a folder across the coffee table toward us. "One: categorical denial. Claim the photos are misleading and the story fabricated."

"No," Riley and I said simultaneously.

Diane nodded, unsurprised. "Two: acknowledge the beginning was arranged but emphasize how it evolved into something genuine. Play up the romance angle—unexpected love story and all that."

Riley bit her lip. "That's closer to the truth."

"Three," Diane continued, "refuse all comment and wait for the next scandal to draw attention away. But be warned: in Boston, something like this tends to stick."

"We can't just hide and hope it goes away," I said, running a hand through my hair in frustration. "The team, our families—they deserve some kind of explanation."

As if summoned by my words, Riley's phone rang. She glanced at the screen and paled.

"It's my parents," she whispered, looking suddenly terrified.

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