Below it, a grainy, dark photo that makes my blood freeze in my veins. It's Nate and I walking together in the training facilityparking lot. His head is bent toward mine, and I'm looking up at him, laughing at something he's said. We're not touching, but we might as well be. The intimacy is undeniable, written in the angle of our bodies leaning toward each other.
I’m almost certain it was the night we had sex in my car. However, there were a couple of other times we happened to be leaving at the same time and walked to our cars together. I pray it was one of those nights instead.
My fingers go numb as I scroll down, reading snippets of the article.
"...sources close to the team confirm Barnes has been spending considerable time with a female staff member..."
"...notorious for his conquests both on and off the ice..."
"...unclear how long the relationship has been going on..."
"...identity of the woman remains unconfirmed, but speculation is rampant..."
Bile rises in my throat. I rush to the bathroom and start dry heaving over the toilet. When I’m done, my legs tremble as I slump against the cool porcelain, trying to steady my breathing and think through the fog of panic clouding my mind.
This can't be happening. We were careful. We were discreet.
Except we weren't, were we? Not really. Not when we were having sex in my car in the parking lot. Not when we were exchanging not-so-subtle glances across crowded rooms. Not when half the building could probably feel the electricity crackling between us whenever we were within twenty feet of each other.
I get back in bed and pick up my phone again, scrolling through comments beneath the article. Speculation is already spiraling out of control.
"Bet it's that hot trainer."
"Nah, it's definitely the PR chick with the legs."
"Barnesy is such a player. Give it two weeks before he's onto the next one."
"Lucky bitch, whoever she is."
Lucky bitch? Seriously? As if this situation is something to be envied. As if I'm not watching my entire career potentially crumbling before my eyes.
I scroll back up to study the photo again, searching for details. It's dark, grainy—taken from a distance with a phone camera, most likely. It’s fairly easy to figure out it’s Nate, but there’s a shadow across my face that makes me almost unrecognizable.
My mind races back to that night. The sex was so hot—I can still remember the way his hands and mouth felt on my body.
Was someone watching us that whole time? Taking pictures? My skin crawls at the thought. What if they have more photos? What if they caught us in my car, windows fogged, bodies pressed together?
I scroll through more comments, looking for clues or any indication that more damning evidence might exist. There's nothing specific, just the usual toxic mix of speculation and vulgarity that accompanies any hint of scandal.
Should I call Nate? Warn him? My thumb hovers over his contact information, but I hesitate. What would I even say? "Hey, there’s a picture of us on the internet right before we had sex in my car"?
Besides, knowing Nate, he'd probably just laugh it off. Say something about how the press refuses to leave him alone. He’d look at it and tell me no one is ever going to recognize who I am from that shitty photo.
My phone buzzes again, another text from Dad: "My office. 8 AM sharp."
Shit. Right. My dad… I’m guessing he recognized me because, otherwise, why would he be dragging me into this?
I force myself to get up, my mind running through possible explanations, excuses, and denials. None of them sounds convincing.
In the shower, I scrub my skin, as if I can wash away the evidence of my poor judgment.
I dress quickly, choosing a cream silk blouse and tailored pants—professional, unremarkable, nothing like the woman laughing up at Nate Barnes in that grainy photo. As I reach for my necklace—my mother's cross—I hesitate. It's slightly visible in the photo. Perhaps I shouldn’t wear it today.
I put it on anyway. I need to feel my mom close to me today. My fingers tremble as I fasten the clasp.
Time to face the consequences.
As I enter the training facility thirty minutes later, the halls stretch longer than usual. Every step toward my father's office feels like a small death. My mouth is dry, my palms damp, and somewhere beneath my ribs, a knot of dread pulls tighter with each passing second. I've rehearsed a dozen explanations during the drive here, each one less convincing than the last.
