Chapter 87 Behind the Voice

Chapter 87 Behind the Voice

Chloe

The answer sat behind my teeth, simple enough to say and powerful enough to destroy everything I had built with him.

Daniel waited without pushing, his hand still cupping my cheek as concern sharpened in his eyes. He had promised to listen, and I believed him. 

I drew in a breath that did nothing to steady me. “I’m the person behind Penalty Box Transgressions.”

For several seconds, Daniel did not react at all. His hand remained against my face, but the warmth of his palm suddenly felt fragile, as though one wrong movement might cause him to pull away.

“You’re the anonymous podcaster,” he said at last.

It was not quite a question, but I nodded anyway. “Yes.”

His gaze shifted toward the laptop on his desk, then returned to me. Pieces were already rearranging behind his expression. Every Sunday morning I had acted surprised. Every conversation about the newest episode. Every time I had stood in the kitchen listening while the guys argued over who might be responsible.

“You made the podcast.”

“I did.”

Daniel lowered his hand from my cheek, though he did not move away from the bed. The loss of contact hollowed something out inside me.

“Why?”

I had rehearsed that explanation a hundred different ways, but none of them sounded sufficient now that I was looking at him. “Because I hated the hockey team before I knew any of you.”

His eyebrows drew together, but he stayed quiet.

“From the outside, it always looked like the same thing,” I continued. “A toxic gathering of boys who protected one another no matter who got hurt, especially when the person getting hurt was a woman. Every rumor disappeared behind team loyalty. Every accusation turned into a joke. If one player did something terrible, the others closed ranks until the person speaking out looked like the problem.”

Daniel’s jaw tightened, though I could not tell whether the anger was directed at me or the history I was describing.

“My best friend dated a hockey player,” I said. “He drugged her and took advantage of her.”

Daniel’s expression changed immediately.

“She reported it, but no one believed her. He told everyone she had been drinking, that she regretted sleeping with him and wanted attention. The team backed him up even though most of them had not been there. By the end of the semester, people were laughing at her in the halls and calling her a liar.”

The memories pressed against my chest with the same suffocating weight they had carried then. 

“She left school because she couldn’t take it anymore,” I finished. “He stayed. He kept playing. Everyone moved on as if nothing had happened.”

Daniel stared at the comforter between us. “I remember that.”

My breath caught.

“It was my freshman year,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know her personally, but I remember what people said.”

“And?”

He lifted his eyes. “For the record, I knew she was telling the truth.”

Something inside me twisted. “You did?”

“Yes. The way he talked about her afterward made it obvious. He enjoyed what was happening to her.” 

Daniel rubbed a hand over his damp hair, frustration hardening his features. “But I was a freshman. I had no proof, and no one would have listened to me over the older players. I didn’t know what I could do.”

“You could have said something.”

“I know.” Regret moved through his voice before he looked away. “I told myself there was nothing I could do, but maybe that was just easier than finding out.”

I had expected denial or defensiveness. His willingness to admit that he had failed her left me with nowhere to place the anger I had carried for years.

“That was when I decided all of you deserved to be exposed,” I said. “I wanted every hockey player’s dirty laundry dragged into the open. I thought if the team was going to protect its own, then someone outside it needed to make sure there were consequences.”

Daniel was silent long enough that the hum of the air conditioner began to feel deafening.

“The podcast was punishment,” I continued. “At least, that was what I told myself. I was also studying online anonymity, group behavior, and the way digital exposure changes public perception. I started using the reactions to each episode as part of my thesis research.”

His eyes snapped back to mine. “You were using the team as research subjects?”

The shame in my stomach deepened. “Yes.”

“Without anyone knowing.”

“Yes.”

Daniel leaned back slightly, putting a few more inches between us while he processed it. The distance felt enormous.

“That’s bad, Chloe.”

“I know.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “It’s manipulative, and I’m guessing the university would have a lot to say about the ethics of it.”

“They would.”

“But it isn’t unforgivable.” His voice remained careful. “I understand why you started, even if I don’t agree with what you did.”

“There’s more.”

Daniel closed his eyes briefly. “Of course there is.”

The faint exhaustion in his voice hurt, but I forced myself to continue. He deserved the whole truth, even if each piece made forgiveness less likely.

“When I learned you lived in the Hockey House, I placed myself in your path.”

His eyes opened.

“Over the summer I made sure we met because I thought getting close to you would give me access to the house and more information about the team.”

Daniel’s face went completely still.

“Our first meeting wasn’t an accident,” he said.

“No.”

He stood and walked several steps away from the bed, one hand gripping the edge of his towel while the other settled on his hip. I could see the moment every early interaction between us became suspect in his mind.

“Daniel, I fell for you.”

He did not turn around.

“I know that doesn’t erase what I planned, but it changed everything. I stopped looking for information almost immediately because being with you stopped feeling like part of the podcast. It became the only part of my life that felt honest.”

He finally faced me again, hurt written plainly across his expression. “Was any of it real in the beginning?”

“My reasons for meeting you weren’t. Everything after that was.”

“How am I supposed to know where one ended and the other began?”

“I don’t know.” Tears gathered again, but I refused to look away. “I can only tell you that I never used anything I learned from being with you.”

Daniel’s expression tightened.

“I already knew about James and Maya before you and I got together,” I continued quickly. “Obviously you didn’t tell me because you didn’t know. And the STD episode came from an email someone sent to the account. It had nothing to do with you or anything I learned inside this house.”

“So you wanted to use me.”

“Yes.” The word tasted bitter. “But I never did.”

Daniel held my gaze, and I forced myself to say the part that mattered most.

“I feel like that distinction has to mean something.”