My Boyfriend Cheated in Front of My Brother's Rival

"You are not just handing over the raw files, Riley."

Jenna’s voice crackled through my laptop speakers, filling the silence of my kitchen.

"The league wants an eighteen-day 'Captain Off Ice' documentary," she continued, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You are producing the content framework, and you will approve the final timeline."

I stared at the grid of faces on the video call. "Seattle management will never approve a Comets staffer doing image rehab for Vancouver's captain."

"And Vancouver hates the idea of a rival team's editor holding the final cut," Jenna fired back, adjusting her headset. "But if you walk away, we bring in a third-party agency. If we do that, Evan’s narrative about the footage being a misunderstanding gets reopened for the disciplinary committee."

My nails dug into my palms. I refused to let Evan dictate the truth of last night.

"I'll do it," I said.

A new box popped onto the screen. Declan Vale leaned back in a leather chair, reading the digital script I had just uploaded to the shared folder. He wore a grey hoodie, his bruised knuckles resting on his chin.

"Anger issues?" Declan read aloud, his voice harsh and flat. "Fan altercation? Are you planning to cut me into a talking apology template, Brooks?"

"I didn't write the PR draft," I told him.

"Then fix it. I am not reading this garbage."

Two hours later, the fluorescent lights of the neutral training facility buzzed overhead.

"Just say you lost control without good reason," Mark, the league PR representative, instructed. He tapped his clipboard, glaring at Declan. "The sponsors need you to look humbled."

Declan crossed his arms over his chest guard. "I am not using Riley getting dragged by her lanyard as an excuse, but I am not pretending I swung at a ghost, either."

"You need to show remorse," Mark insisted, stepping closer. "The video is everywhere."

"And I am not your redemption prop," I said, stepping between them.

I grabbed the clipboard from Mark's hands. Pulling a pen from my back pocket, I crossed out the entire hero narrative the league had drafted. I scribbled a single sentence in the margin and shoved the paper against Declan’s chest.

He caught the clipboard, his eyes scanning my handwriting.

"'I chose to escalate the conflict when I could have walked away. That responsibility is mine.'" Declan read the words slowly. He lifted his gaze, locking eyes with me. "Why didn't you write your boyfriend's cheating into the statement? It would buy you plenty of sympathy."

"Because that is my private wound," I told him, keeping my chin high. "It is not your PR asset."

He spun the pen between his knuckles, the plastic clicking sharply against his silver ring.

"At least we speak the same language on this," Declan said.

We recorded the short statement right there in the hallway. When it went live ten minutes later, the internet comments remained brutal, but my chest felt lighter. I wasn't lying to keep my job.

By two o'clock, the ice rink dropped the temperature in the building by ten degrees. The Zamboni had just cleared the surface, leaving a fresh, glossy sheen.

I stepped onto the rubber matting by the bench, holding the wireless mic pack. "Lift your jersey."

Declan complied, exposing a rigid stomach covered in light sweat. I clipped the wire to his collar, my fingers brushing the cold fabric of his undershirt.

"You going to splice in the audio of Mason eating ice during his first shift?" Declan asked, looking down at me.

I yanked the wire tight, securing the pack to his shoulder pads. "After your legal hit, Mason took a penalty for a retaliatory shove. I never denied my brother was in the wrong."

Declan blinked, his taunting smirk vanishing entirely.

"Sit down," I ordered, pointing my camera lens at him.

He dropped onto the wooden bench, resting his forearms on his thighs.

"Let's get this on record," I said, hitting the red record button. "Mason holds a grudge because you mocked him to the press. You push him into the hardest physical matchups every time we play. Explain the difference between competition and intentional humiliation."

Declan stared directly into the lens. He didn't fidget. He didn't look away.

"Telling the press to keep the cameras off the ice was a jab at your brother," Declan admitted, his rough voice echoing in the empty arena. "I own that. But I will never apologize for a clean hit in the defensive zone. If he wants to skate in my crease, he pays the toll."

I lowered the camera slightly. He didn't deflect the blame. He knew exactly what he was responsible for, and he knew exactly what he refused to bow to.

Later that afternoon, my phone buzzed. Jenna’s name flashed on the screen.

"Next episode requires a full day outside the team," Jenna said over the speakerphone. We stood in the empty locker room corridor, the smell of athletic tape and cold air surrounding us. "Riley gets unedited footage rights. No secondary cuts from Vancouver."

Declan unlaced his skates, his jaw setting into a hard line. "Family, personal finances, and my home address are off limits."

His tone held zero room for negotiation. It was colder than when he rejected the apology script this morning.

"Fine," I said.

I pulled up the digital contract on my tablet. I typed his boundaries into the addendum, word for word, making sure the legal phrasing was ironclad. I handed the screen over.

He signed it with his index finger, handing the tablet back without another word.

Footsteps echoed down the concrete hallway.

Grant Keller, the Comets' alternate captain, walked past the visitor's bench. He wore his Seattle track jacket, his dark hair messy from practice. In his right hand, he carried a familiar silver rectangle.

My backup drive. The one I left in the editing room last night.

Grant stopped in front of me and pressed the cold metal into my palm.

"Do you need someone to go with you to the apartment?" Grant asked, his voice low. "To pack up Evan's things?"

Declan leaned against the doorframe, a faint, sharp smile touching his mouth. "Keller does employee aftercare too?"

Grant didn't look at me. He turned his head, fixing a dead stare on Declan.

"She doesn't need aftercare," Grant said, his voice lowering. "She needs people to give her back what belongs to her."

The amusement vanished from Declan’s face.

He pushed off the doorframe, squaring his broad shoulders as Grant stepped forward, closing the distance between them until their chests nearly brushed.