Chapter 112 The Media Watchdog
Chapter 112 The Media Watchdog
I knew something was wrong before I even unlocked my phone.
It wasn’t instinct. It was the way it refused to stop vibrating against the nightstand, one notification after another piling up before I’d even opened my eyes. By the time I reached for it, the screen was filled with missed calls, text messages and sports alerts.
The first text was from Raffi.
Don’t read anything until you get to the rink.
The second came from our PR director.
League officials want to meet with you and Cassian at ten, please don’t comment publicly.
My stomach tightened.
League officials.
That was never a phrase anyone wanted to wake up to.
I should have listened to Raffi. I should have thrown the phone back onto the nightstand, gotten dressed and dealt with whatever waited for me at the arena.
Instead, I tapped the first notification.
A headline filled the screen.
ARE THE ICE BREAKERS TOO CLOSE? WHY THE NHL SHOULD INVESTIGATE HOCKEY’S MOST FAMOUS COUPLE.
I frowned.
Investigate?
I opened the article.
The journalist never accused us of cheating. He was too smart for that.
Instead, he asked questions.
Could two romantic partners playing on the same line create an unfair competitive advantage?
Did living together give them access to strategic conversations unavailable to anyone else?
Had coaches become unwilling to separate them because of the publicity surrounding their relationship?
Should the league examine whether personal relationships had begun influencing professional decisions?
Each question sounded harmless on its own.
Together, they painted a picture that didn’t exist.
By the time I reached the bottom of the article, my jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt.
There were three more articles waiting beneath it.
Different headlines.
Same implication.
The last one had already climbed to the top of every sports website in the country.
I locked my phone and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over my face.
Beside me, the mattress shifted.
Cassian blinked awake, his hair a mess, his voice rough with sleep.
“You’re up early.”
I looked at him.
For one second, I considered lying.
Then his eyes landed on my phone.
“What happened?”
I handed it to him without saying a word.
He frowned as he read the headline.
Then he opened the article.
I watched the change happen in real time.
Confusion.
Disbelief.
Then anger.
His expression hardened with every paragraph until he finally threw the phone onto the blanket between us.
“What the hell is this?”
I didn’t answer.
He picked it up again and opened the second article.
“They’re serious?”
“I think they are.”
“They actually think we have some kind of unfair advantage because…” He stopped himself and laughed bitterly. “Because we go home together?”
“It’s written carefully.”
“It’s written to start a fire.”
He wasn’t wrong.
He climbed out of bed and began pacing across the room.
“This guy knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“I know.”
“No, Torin.” He turned toward me, frustration written across his face. “He doesn’t believe any of this.”
“I know.”
“He just wants people talking.”
“And now they are.”
Cassian raked both hands through his hair before grabbing his phone again.
“I’m responding.”
“No.”
His head snapped towards me.
“What?”
“I said no.”
“They’re accusing us of compromising the league.”
“And if you answer while you’re angry, you’ll spend tomorrow apologizing again.”
He stared at me.
“This isn’t the same as Ridgeport.”
“It starts the same way.”
Silence settled between us.
I could almost see the argument building behind his eyes.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose.
“I hate when you’re right.”
He dropped back onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
The apartment felt unusually quiet.
Outside, traffic drifted past the windows, ordinary and indifferent.
Inside, it felt as though our entire world had narrowed to a handful of headlines written by someone who had never met us.
Cassian picked up the phone one last time.
“They’re calling us a distraction.”
“They’re trying to.”
“What if people believe it?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
That was the question I couldn’t stop asking myself.
Neither of us touched breakfast.
Cassian sat at the kitchen island with his phone face up in front of him, his coffee untouched. Every few seconds, the screen lit up with another notification before going dark again. Messages from teammates, friends, reporters. People who suddenly thought they had a right to weigh in on our lives.
The silence stretched between us until Cassian finally broke it.
“How bad is it?”
I looked over my shoulder. “You already know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
I sighed and leaned against the counter.
“It’s everywhere.”
He nodded once, almost to himself.
“I figured.”
“The league meeting doesn’t necessarily mean they believe any of it.”
“But it means they have to respond.”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“So one article is enough to drag us into a meeting.”
“It isn’t just one article anymore.”
He laughed bitterly.
“No, it never stays one article.”
His phone buzzed again.
This time he didn’t ignore it. He picked it up, glanced at the screen and frowned.
“Another interview request.”
“Decline it.”
“I wasn’t planning to accept.”
A few seconds later another notification appeared.
Then another.
He locked the phone and slid it across the counter as though he couldn’t stand looking at it anymore.
“I’m getting really tired of strangers deciding who we are.”
“So am I.”
He looked at me.
“You know what bothers me the most?”
“What?”
“They’re acting like everything we’ve accomplished suddenly has an asterisk beside it.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
Every hour we’d spent practicing, every injury we’d played through, every extra skate after training, every championship we’d fought for.
Reduced to one headline.
I walked over and rested a hand against the back of his neck.
“They can’t erase what we’ve done.”
“They’re trying.”
“I know.”
He closed his eyes briefly, leaning into my touch for the smallest moment before straightening again.
A knock sounded on the apartment door.
Our PR director.
Right on time.
…
The drive to the arena was quieter than usual.
Normally Cassian filled the car with music, complained about traffic or argued with whatever sports podcast happened to be playing.
Today the radio stayed off.
When we pulled into the players’ entrance, reporters were already waiting behind the barricades.
Cameras swung towards the car before I’d even turned off the engine.
“They’re early,” Cassian muttered.
“They’ve probably been here for an hour.”
One photographer shouted my name.
Another called for Cassian.
Neither of us looked over.
We climbed out and headed for the entrance together.
“Torin!”
“What do you think about the investigation?”
“Cassian, is your relationship becoming a distraction?”
“Do you think couples should be allowed to play together?”
The questions followed us all the way to the doors.
Cassian’s pace slowed.
I knew that look.
He wanted to turn around.
He wanted to answer every single one of them.
I reached for his wrist.
“Keep walking.”
“They’re accusing us of something that isn’t true.”
“I know.”
“I can end this right now.”
“No, you can’t.”
He stopped just short of the entrance.
“They don’t get to write whatever they want.”
“No.”
“Then why are we letting them?”
“Because they aren’t looking for answers.”
He frowned.
“They’re looking for a reaction.”
For a long second he said nothing.
Then he looked back towards the cameras.
Flashes continued exploding behind us.
“They’d love it if you lost your temper,” I said quietly.
“And they’d love it even more if both of us did.”
His shoulders rose with a deep breath before slowly falling again.
Finally he nodded.
“Fine.”
I squeezed his wrist once before letting go.
“Let’s get through today.”
Inside, the arena felt almost unnaturally calm after the chaos outside.
The familiar smell of sharpened skates and fresh ice greeted us as we walked towards the conference room where the league officials were waiting.
No one smiled when we entered.
Three officials stood to shake our hands before inviting us to sit.
The oldest among them opened a folder.
“I’d like to begin by saying this isn’t a disciplinary hearing.”
Some of the tension left Cassian’s shoulders.
“Then why are we here?”
“Because recent media coverage has generated questions from several organizations and sponsors.”
He spoke calmly, professionally.
“We’re simply confirming that team procedures have been followed appropriately.”
The questions lasted nearly forty minutes.
Had coaches ever given us preferential treatment?
No.
Did we have access to confidential information unavailable to teammates?
No.
Did our relationship influence line combinations or roster decisions?
No.
Every answer was straightforward because the truth didn’t require rehearsing.
When the meeting finally ended, the senior official closed the folder and offered us a polite smile.
“We appreciate your cooperation. Based on everything we’ve reviewed, we have no concerns.”
Cassian leaned back in his chair.
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Relief washed over me.
It should have been enough.
It wasn’t.
Because the headlines would still be there when we walked outside.
The comments would still be there.
The speculation would still be there.
The meeting had cleared our names.
It hadn’t stopped the story.
As we stepped into the hallway, I caught Cassian watching me instead of the people passing by.
“What?”
He studied my face for another second.
“You’ve been quiet all day.”
“I’m just tired.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“You’re somewhere else.”
I forced a small smile that didn’t fool either of us.
“I’m fine.”
He didn’t answer.
He simply kept looking at me, as though he could already feel me retreating inch by inch.
And the worst part was…
He wasn’t wrong.