After He Cheated, I Chose My Brother's Hockey Rival

"I'll tell the league I started it," Cade said, planting both hands on Marisol's glass desk. "Pull her off the project."

"Absolutely not," I said from the corner of the PR office.

Marisol rubbed her temples. "Tessa, your ex-boyfriend just framed you for a cross-roster affair. The front office wants your personal accounts suspended until the league finishes their review."

"If you suspend my accounts, it looks like an admission of guilt," I argued, stepping up to the desk. "Nate wants me to hide. He wants me terrified of the backlash so I won't expose what he actually did."

"I'm taking the blame," Cade repeated, his voice dropping a full octave. "You're done taking hits for my suspension."

"And what happens to your reputation?" I asked. "You just admit to assaulting a staff member unprovoked?"

"I survive it," Cade said. "You don't."

"I don't need a man to rewrite my narrative," I snapped. "Neither of you."

I pulled my phone from my pocket, opened the league's official social app, and hit record. I didn't check my hair. I didn't put on my customer-service smile.

"My name is Tessa Hale," I said to the lens. "Last night, I walked into the Lakeshore Arena media room and caught my boyfriend, Nate, kissing another woman. I had zero private conversations with Cade Mercer before that exact minute. Mercer was wrong to escalate the argument into a physical fight. But Nate does not get to reverse a timeline just to hide his own infidelity."

I tapped the screen and posted the video directly to the main feed.

"It's live," I told Marisol, dropping the phone onto her desk. "Nate's leverage is gone. Now let me do my job."

Two hours later, the chill of the empty practice rink bit through my thin jacket.

Cade sat on the away bench, tracing the edge of his stick blade with his thumb. I clamped the camera to the glass partition and pressed the record button.

"Five minutes," I instructed, stepping back. "Whatever I ask, you answer. No PR retakes. We leave it uncut."

Cade rested his chin on his hands. "Shoot."

"Why do you think Owen only chases the camera?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

"Because he cares more about his post-game fit than his backcheck," Cade answered immediately.

"Do you really think every guy in this league just lives for the likes?" I pressed.

"You think we lace up to trend online?" Cade countered.

"I think social media is a second arena," I fired back. "It's not vanity. It's how players secure their futures when their knees give out at thirty. It's how the team pays for the ice you're sitting next to. Owen knows that. You pretend you don't."

Cade stopped moving. He stared at me, the harsh rink lights catching the sharp angle of his jaw. The silence held.

"You actually understand the business," he finally said.

"I do my job."

"More than that." He dropped his stick. It clattered against the rubber floor mats. "I checked the Forge public staff directory last night."

I gripped the edge of the camera monitor. "Why?"

"I wanted to know who I was working with," Cade said. "You got hired here two years before Owen got drafted. And you voluntarily pulled your name off his personal brand management last season."

I crossed my arms, suddenly feeling too exposed under the fluorescent bulbs. "So?"

"So I know you didn't get in because of him," Cade said, his gaze pinning me in place. "You just let everyone call you the rookie's sister."

I opened my mouth to deliver a sharp comeback, to push him right back into the rival box where he belonged. Nothing came out.

Lakeshore Arena roared at eight o'clock that night, the second game of Chicago and Denver's two-night set.

I sat at the team work desk, my tablet resting on my knees. Down on the ice, the Chicago-Denver matchup looked like a war zone. Owen and Cade marked each other relentlessly, trading shoves after every whistle. The referees handed out roughing penalties like candy, but neither man backed down.

Halfway through the second period, Owen wound up for a massive slapshot from the point. The puck left his stick like a bullet.

Cade dropped to his knees in the shooting lane.

The hard rubber puck slammed directly into Cade's exposed ribs with a sickening thud. He collapsed forward, his helmet hitting the ice. The whistle blew.

It took the Vipers trainer three minutes to get Cade off the ice. He spent the rest of the period hunched on the bench, clutching his side.

Ten minutes later, Owen scored on a breakaway. As he skated past the Denver bench to celebrate, Owen loudly slapped his own chest, right where the puck had hit Cade.

Cade didn't stand up. He simply raised one gloved hand and pointed at the giant scoreboard above center ice. Denver was still winning.

The visiting corridor smelled of ammonia and sweat when I arrived after the final horn.

I leaned against the cinderblock wall, clutching my camera. The door creaked open. Cade walked out.

He looked terrible. His skin lacked any color, and he held his left arm tight against his torso. The team doctor had clearly just wrapped his ribs.

"What kind of villain did Nate edit you into today?" Cade asked, his voice strained.

I didn't laugh. I stepped forward and adjusted the camera lens. "Two minutes. Just give me one quote about the penalty kill, and you're done."

Cade stopped. He studied my face, searching for the catch. "The packet says you need five minutes post-game."

"I'm the director," I said, holding the camera steady. "I say we need two. You look like you're going to pass out in my hallway, and I don't want to fill out the incident report."

He didn't mock me. He didn't reject the lifeline. He just nodded, stepped into the frame, and gave me exactly what I needed in ninety seconds flat.

"Cut," I said, lowering the lens.

A screen lit up on the wooden bench just inside the open locker room door. Cade's phone.

He turned his back to me and picked it up. The hallway was completely empty. The silence amplified his low, raspy voice.

"Don't tell Mom," Cade said into the receiver.

I froze, my hand hovering over the power button on my camera.

"I know Dad's rink loan is tied to the house," Cade continued, leaning his forehead against the metal doorframe. "Just keep them quiet. I'll cover it by Friday."

He ended the call and turned around.

I stood exactly where he had left me. We locked eyes through the stark white light spilling from the locker room. He knew I heard him. The arrogant, unbothered captain of the Denver Vipers suddenly looked cornered.

I slid the lens cap onto my camera. "We have enough content for today."

I turned to walk away.

"You always wanted to know why I can't take a suspension, Tessa?" Cade asked.

I stopped and looked over my shoulder.

He stood straight, ignoring the obvious pain in his ribs. "Ask me tomorrow, and I'll tell you the real answer."