The Hockey Star’s Championship Lie

"I'll call you back," I told the stranger on the phone.

I hung up and shoved the device into my pocket. I didn't have time to entertain rival team owners. I had a life to dismantle.

I bypassed the arena's main exits, slipping out through the loading dock to avoid the press. Thirty minutes later, I punched the emergency code into the keypad of Jude's penthouse.

The lock flashed green. I pushed the heavy oak door open.

The silence inside felt entirely different from the roar of the stadium. It was hollow.

I marched straight to the master bedroom and dragged my suitcase from the top shelf of the closet. I didn't bother folding anything. I grabbed handfuls of my clothes and threw them into the bag.

"What do you think you're doing?"

I spun around. Toby, the junior equipment manager, stood in the doorway. He held a clipboard against his chest like a shield.

"How did you get in here?" I asked.

"Marcus sent me to check on the apartment. He thought you might trash the place." Toby stepped into the room, his eyes darting around. "Are you stealing his stuff?"

"I'm packing my own clothes." I tossed a pair of jeans into the open suitcase. "Marcus can relax. I don't want anything that belongs to Jude."

"You can't just leave, Lila. The post-game presser is a disaster."

"Not my problem."

"Maya is telling the media you're an obsessed fan." Toby gestured toward the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. "She told a reporter you've been stalking him for months."

"Let her talk."

"You're not going to defend yourself?"

"Defending myself means admitting I slept with him." I zipped the suitcase closed with a sharp tug. "I'm not doing that. I want a clean break. No tabloid drama. No leaks."

I walked over to the nightstand and pulled out two massive binders. They hit the mattress with a heavy thud.

"Take these," I said.

Toby blinked. "What are they?"

"The blue one is my handwritten log of his ankle injuries and physical therapy schedule. The red one is his off-season diet plan." I shoved the heavy folders against his chest. "You're his assistant now."

"I don't know how to tape an ankle!"

"Learn." I grabbed my suitcase handle. "He likes his pre-game meals exactly three hours before tip-off. No dairy. If he complains about his knee, make him ice it for twenty minutes. Not fifteen. Twenty."

Toby stared at the binders in horror. "He's going to fire me."

"He won't even notice I'm gone until he runs out of clean jerseys."

My cell phone vibrated in my back pocket. The caller ID flashed Jude's name.

I stared at the glowing screen.

"Answer it," Toby urged. "Maybe he's calling to apologize."

I swiped the green icon and put the phone on speaker.

"Are you done throwing your little tantrum?" Jude's voice filled the quiet bedroom. Background music thumped heavily behind his words.

Toby winced.

"I'm packing, Jude," I said.

"Good. Move your stuff to the guest room." A woman laughed on his end of the line. Maya. "Maya wants to stay over tonight. Make sure the sheets are changed."

My fingers tightened around the handle of my suitcase. "I'm not moving to the guest room. I'm leaving."

"Stop being dramatic." Ice clinked against glass. He was drinking. "You embarrassed me tonight, Lila. I'm willing to overlook it because we won the championship, but don't push your luck."

"You announced you were marrying another woman."

"It's a business move!" Jude snapped. "Maya's agent secured a massive endorsement deal for us as a couple. I told you everything would change today. This is the change. We're a power couple now."

"And where do I fit into that?"

"Right where you've always been." His tone softened, adopting that persuasive edge he used on referees. "Behind the scenes. Keeping my life together. Take three days off. Cool down. I'll have Marcus wire you a playoff bonus."

He really believed it. He thought he could publicly humiliate me, let his fake fiancée slap me, and pay me off to keep warming his bed in secret.

"Toby has your medical files," I said.

"Why does Toby have my files? Put my sheets on the bed, Lila."

"Goodbye, Jude."

"If you hang up on me, you're fired!"

"I already quit."

I tapped the red button. The line went dead.

"He's going to lose his mind," Toby whispered.

"He'll survive."

I opened my messaging app. Two years of late-night texts stared back at me. Promises. Hotel room numbers. Secrets.

I hit select all. Delete.

I navigated to my contacts. I blocked Jude. I blocked Marcus. I blocked the entire PR team.

"You're really burning it all down," Toby said.

"I'm walking away." I pulled my bag off the bed and headed for the door. "Good luck, Toby."

I didn't look back.

I drove until the city lights faded into the rearview mirror. The silence in my car felt empty, stripping away the last remnants of my old life.

I pulled into a twenty-four-hour diner on the edge of the highway.

The bell above the glass door chimed as I walked in. I slid into a cracked vinyl booth near the back.

A small television hummed above the counter. The sports network was running post-game coverage on a loop.

I didn't want to look, but the flashing championship graphic caught my eye.

The screen cut to a live feed of Jude's victory party at a downtown club. The camera zoomed in on him. He sat in a VIP booth, a cigar clamped between his teeth, one arm draped over Maya's shoulders.

A reporter thrust a microphone over the velvet rope.

"Jude! Your assistant caused quite a scene in the locker room earlier. Sources say she quit. Any comment?"

Jude removed the cigar. He flashed his signature, camera-ready smile.

"Lila is just exhausted," he said smoothly. "It’s been a long season. She gets a little emotional under pressure. Give her a few days to rest, and she'll be right back on the bench handing me towels."

Maya leaned into his side, giggling. "She's very passionate about her job."

"Exactly," Jude agreed. "She's not going anywhere."

I stared at the screen. He was so arrogant. So utterly convinced of his own gravity that he couldn't fathom a world where I didn't orbit him.

He thought I was sitting at home, crying over him, waiting for him to snap his fingers.

I picked up my phone.

I scrolled past the blocked numbers and tapped the unknown contact from earlier tonight.

The line rang twice before a deep voice answered.

"I figured you'd call back."

"You said you needed an assistant," I said.

"I need someone who knows how to handle elite athletes," the man replied. "Someone who knows Jude Rossi's weaknesses."

"I know everything about him."

"Good. I'm Victor Cross. Owner of the Seattle Knights."

"I know who you are, Mr. Cross."

"Call me Victor. My star point guard fired three assistants in two months. He's a disaster off the court. He needs a warden, not a cheerleader."

"I don't cheer for anyone anymore." I traced the edge of the diner table. "But I have conditions."

"Name them."

"Full autonomy over his schedule. Direct access to medical staff. And double what Marcus paid me."

Victor chuckled. The sound was low, rumbling through the speaker. "Done. When can you fly to Seattle?"

"Tonight."

"I'll send my private jet to the municipal airport. Be there in an hour."

"I'll be there."

I ended the call.

I looked up at the television one last time. Jude was kissing Maya's cheek for the cameras, soaking in the flashing bulbs.

Enjoy the spotlight, Jude.

Because next season, I was coming for your crown.