Avery POV

At seven o'clock the next morning, my phone buzzed with a notification from the league's official media account.

I tapped the link. The screen flashed a grainy, four-year-old clip of my sister, Talia, handing her press pass to a security guard. A harsh sound effect triggered, smashing the visual straight to a close-up of my own chest. The name QUINN filled the frame.

Then, Roman’s face appeared, his voice isolated and amplified over a black screen.

"Ask her why she never appealed those three bets."

I scrolled the comments section.

Another Quinn looking for a payout.

Is she trying to sleep with him too?

I found Brianna in the production trailer before the morning meeting. I didn't say hello. I set my phone on her desk and hit play on the secret audio file. Miles’s voice filled the small space, bragging about using my last name for ratings.

Brianna reached for her coffee cup, her expression tightening. “Miles bypassed me and approved the archival footage directly.”

“Take the promo down,” I demanded.

“I can't do that, Avery.” Brianna leaned back in her chair. “And if you take that recording to the ethics committee, they will ask why an intern is secretly taping production meetings. You’ll be blacklisted before lunch.”

I grabbed my phone, sliding it into my pocket.

“Keep the promo up,” I said. “But from now on, every piece of footage involving my sister gets full sourcing and uncut interviews. If you chop up another answer to make me look like a revenge-obsessed groupie, I walk. You can explain to the network why your star subject refuses to talk to anyone else.”

Brianna stared at me. “Deal.”

“Put it in writing,” I said.

Her mouth tightened, but she opened a new email and typed while I watched. Any archival footage involving Talia Quinn would require source notes, full interview context, and producer approval before release. She copied Kelsey and legal. I made her add one more line: my refusal to participate in a misleading edit could not be treated as insubordination.

When the message hit my inbox, I forwarded it to my private account with the audio recording attached. It was not a shield, but it was a paper trail. Crossfield had hired my surname because it provoked Roman. From now on, every time they tried to turn that fact into a weapon, they would have to leave fingerprints.

Two hours later, chaos erupted on the edge of the practice field.

A rookie receiver stood cornered by three beat reporters shoving microphones in his face. A screenshot of his college roommate’s sports betting slip had gone viral overnight, and the press corps smelled blood.

Roman stepped between the rookie and the cameras. He didn't smile.

“We deal with public data and team execution,” Roman told the reporters, his voice cutting through the noise. “What a player’s family or friends do with their own money is their business, provided no internal team information is shared.”

“So you guarantee he didn't leak injury reports?” a reporter shouted.

“I'm not standing here giving anyone a blanket pardon,” Roman answered flatly. “The league investigates, and we focus on Sunday.”

He walked away, leaving the press corps scrambling. I caught up to him near the equipment shed, my camera rig heavy on my shoulder.

“You drew a very clear line for him,” I said, matching his stride. “Why didn't you do that for Talia four years ago?”

Roman stopped. He turned to face me, his helmet dangling from his left hand.

“Because four years ago, I didn't just see internet rumors,” he said.

“You saw an innocent woman getting dragged by the media.”

“I saw an offshore betting account,” Roman corrected, his tone dropping. “Registered directly to your sister’s corporate work email.”

My jaw locked. “Did you verify those betting records yourself?”

“No,” Roman said. “The preliminary inquiry report came straight from the league. My agent, Victor Shaw, handed it to me. The data was right there.”

He turned and walked into the locker room.

I sat on my couch that night, staring at my laptop screen until Talia answered the video call. She looked tired, her hair pulled into a messy knot.

“Did you ever open a sports betting account?” I asked.

No greeting. No small talk.

Talia frowned, adjusting her webcam. “Avery, we went through this four years ago. It was all slander.”

“Roman said the account was real,” I pressed. “He said it was registered to your work email.”

Talia froze. Her eyes darted away from the camera lens.

“He is just trying to make you doubt your own family,” she said, her voice rising in pitch. “Don't let him get in your head.”

Four years ago, she lost her job and spent three months staring at a blank television screen. I had fought anyone who dared mention Roman’s name. Now, her evasion felt like a physical weight pressing on my chest.

“I need a yes or no, Talia,” I said.

The screen went black. She hung up.

A text popped up on my phone a second later.

Don't build your career on putting me back on trial.

I dropped the phone on the cushion. For the first time, I couldn't automatically translate her silence into the pain of a victim.

My laptop chimed. An email from Brianna arrived, containing a PDF attachment.

League Integrity Summary - Archival.

I clicked it open. The report never explicitly accused Talia of match-fixing. It cited her media company revoking her credentials for undisclosed relationship and account activity.

I scrolled down to the appendix.

Three flagged bets. All of them wagered on Roman’s passing yardage. All placed hours before the team publicly announced rest days or minor injuries.

The registration email matched Talia’s old corporate address.

I scanned the final column. Login location.

Hayes residence network.

I took a screenshot of the IP address log and texted the image to Talia.

I sat in the quiet apartment, watching the typing bubble appear, disappear, and reappear on my screen. Three full minutes passed.

My phone vibrated with her reply.

The account is real, but I didn't place those three bets that ruined me.

Avery POV

"You emailed HR about closing an offshore sports book." I pressed my phone against my ear, staring at the glowing monitor in the platform archive room. "Three weeks before the league suspended you."

Silence stretched across the line. I heard the faint sound of traffic through her speaker.

"Avery, where did you get that?" Talia asked, her voice tight.

"I bypassed Miles and pulled your old employee file," I said, scrolling through the archived inbox. "Company policy strictly prohibited data hosts from gambling. You knew that. You asked compliance how to shut the account down, but you never submitted the final declaration."

"I opened it before I got the promotion," Talia shot back. "And before I met Roman."

"But you used it."

"Not for those three bets." The defensive edge in her tone spiked, echoing off the cinderblock walls of the archive room. "I never wagered a single dollar on Roman’s passing yards."

"Then what did you bet on?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter," she insisted. "The account was empty by the time the season started."

"It matters to the league," I argued. "You handed them a loaded gun. If I am going to prove someone framed you for the insider wagers, I have to know exactly what rules you actually broke."

"I told you everything that matters," she said.

The line went dead.

I lowered the phone. My sister wasn't a pure victim. She broke the rules first. I had to investigate a frame-up while accepting that she had done something fireable before the scandal even started.

Two days later, I sat across from Roman in a windowless media room deep inside the visiting stadium. The pre-game clock ticked down on the wall, marking forty minutes until kickoff.

"Why did you believe a residential network log proved she placed the wagers?" I asked, checking my audio levels on the monitor.

Roman adjusted his collar, his shoulders tense under his practice jersey. "Because we kept our relationship quiet. Talia spent half her week at my house, editing her segments. She used the team-sponsored tablet I kept in the guest room."

"And the league traced the bets to that specific tablet?"

"Victor did," Roman corrected. "My agent pulled the device export records. The login identifier matched the guest room hardware."

I stopped adjusting the audio dial. I looked up from the equipment. "Did you hand the physical tablet over to the league investigators?"

"No," Roman said, his gaze locking onto mine. "Victor told me his team handled the compliance handoff. We were three weeks away from a playoff run. I gave the issue to the person I paid to protect me."

"So you didn't actually know she placed the bets," I said, keeping my voice entirely flat. "You only knew Victor said the evidence pointed to her."

Roman didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

"Right," Roman said. "And I still went to the microphone and said that sentence."

He offered no excuses. He didn't try to soften the admission.

"We're done here," I told the cameraman, cutting the feed.

By the fourth quarter, the opposing defense had sacked Roman three times. He finished the final drive, throwing a touchdown pass through double coverage, but the post-game tunnel was a madhouse.

Reporters shoved microphones toward the medical evaluation room, shouting questions at the coaching staff. The team doctor caught my eye through the crowd and shook his head once.

I lowered my camera rig, resting the heavy lens against my hip. I did not point it at the closed door.

Ten minutes later, the door swung open. Roman walked out, his left shoulder wrapped in thick ice. The press corps surged forward, but team security pushed them back. Roman spotted me standing by the equipment trunks, my lens still capped.

He walked over, his cleats scraping the concrete floor. "You missed the money shot."

"Medical evaluations aren't part of the documentary scope," I said.

"Miles would have paid you a bonus for footage of me wincing," Roman said, a cynical edge in his voice. "Afraid they'll paint you as the second ruined Quinn if you break a rule?"

I tightened my grip on the rig handle. "I don't need my sister's failure to know what a privacy violation looks like. And I don't need your approval to prove I have professional judgment."

Roman stopped wiping the sweat from his forehead. The hostility vanished from his expression, replaced by a sharp, assessing stare. He looked at the capped lens, then back at my face.

"Turn the camera on," he ordered.

I popped the lens cap off and hit record.

"Ask me about the shoulder," he said.

"Are you playing through an injury next week?" I asked, raising the microphone.

"I hate that question," Roman told the lens, his voice projecting over the locker room noise. "The media measures loyalty by how much pain a player is willing to hide. It's a toxic standard. We either lie to the medical staff and risk our careers, or we tell the truth and get called cowards on morning television."

He gave me a full three-minute answer. It was the most honest footage the production had captured all season. He didn't give me a canned PR response. He gave me a piece of his actual perspective, treating me like a journalist instead of a liability.

At midnight, I sat on the edge of my hotel bed, cross-referencing Talia's old account data with the league's integrity summary.

The money from the three anomalous bets never hit Talia's bank. The withdrawal went to a digital wallet. The transaction history showed no owner name, just a string of encrypted characters.

I scrolled to the login timestamps, tracing the timeline of the final wager.

Talia had left Roman's house at eight in the evening on the night in question. The final login—the one that initiated the massive withdrawal—happened at three in the morning.

I checked the network log for that exact minute. The guest room tablet was offline. But another device was active on Roman's Wi-Fi.

The identifier read: VS-Admin.

I grabbed my phone, snapped a picture of the laptop screen, and texted it to Talia.

Who is VS? I typed.

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

Victor Shaw.

I stared at the name. Roman's agent. The man who handled the compliance handoff. The man who told Roman the evidence was bulletproof.

I stood up, grabbing my room key to go find the ice machine. My mind raced, piecing the timeline together. Victor had access to the house. Victor controlled the narrative. Victor made sure the physical tablet never reached the league investigators.

I walked out into the quiet hallway, the carpet muffling my footsteps.

The elevator chimed at the end of the corridor.

The metal doors slid open. A man in a tailored dark gray suit stepped out. He didn't check the room numbers. He walked straight toward me, stopping two feet away.

He extended his right hand.

"Avery Quinn?" he asked, his voice smooth and practiced. "I am Victor Shaw."

Avery POV

"I understand you are reviewing network logs from a closed inquiry," Victor Shaw said, his hands resting easily in his tailored suit pockets.

I didn't shake his extended hand. I kept my phone gripped tightly in my right palm.

"Did you have administrator access to Roman’s home network four years ago?" I asked.

Victor dropped his arm. His expression remained perfectly pleasant, a mask of corporate patience.

"My firm handles comprehensive brand maintenance for our top clients," Victor replied. "That includes digital security, hardware monitoring, and securing personal networks against outside threats."

"So you controlled the guest room tablet," I concluded.

"I suggest you separate your season documentary from your family matters, Avery." Victor tilted his head, his voice smooth. "Blurring those lines never ends well for the reporter."

"Let her ask her questions, Victor."

Roman stepped out of the adjacent meeting room. He wore gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, his jaw tight as he closed the distance between us.

"I am handling a media inquiry, Roman," Victor said, his tone smoothing out even further.

"You are handling my personal history," Roman corrected. He stopped right next to my shoulder, forming a physical barrier between the agent and me. "Don't answer for me."

Victor offered a crisp nod. He didn't argue. He turned and walked down the carpeted corridor, disappearing around the corner.

I turned my phone screen toward Roman. The VS-Admin log glowed in the dim hallway light.

"Your agency managed the sponsor tablets and the home network," I said. "From your rookie season."

Roman looked at the screen, then up at my face. "Yes. They did."

"Which means deciding the home network automatically equaled Talia was an incomplete conclusion," I pressed. "Someone else had access to that specific device at three in the morning. Someone from Victor's team."

Roman crossed his arms over his chest. "I didn't ask them to verify the administrator logs back then."

"Why not?"

"Because she hid an offshore betting account from me for nine months," he said, his voice dropping. "I wanted to believe the hidden account was enough proof."

"That doesn't make it the truth," I shot back.

"It made it easier than wondering who else was lying to me," Roman said.

"I will have my new legal team pull the old agency contracts," Roman continued, shifting his weight. "We can request the device permission logs from the security vendor."

I lowered my phone, genuinely surprised. "Why would you do that? You spent four years ignoring this."

"Because I don't want a camera crew hunting for ghosts in my locker room," Roman said. "But I have one condition."

"I don't agree to conditions blind."

"Every document gets independent verification," Roman stated. "You don't put a single page into the documentary just because it clears your sister."

"I am a journalist. You don't get to lecture me on how to verify sources."

"I already learned what happens when you treat the closest thing to an answer as the whole truth," Roman said, taking a step toward me. "I am not repeating that mistake with another Quinn."

"A permission log is a hard fact," I argued, refusing to back down. "It carries a lot more weight than your assumption about her six wagers."

"The logs don't change the reality of those six bets," Roman countered.

I froze. My fingers tightened around the edge of my phone case.

"Six?" I asked.

Roman’s eyes narrowed. He studied my face.

"The league integrity summary cited three flagged bets," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the sudden hollow feeling in my stomach. "Where are you getting six?"

Roman stopped. The defensive posture melted out of his shoulders, replaced by a rigid stillness.

"She didn't tell you," he said.

"Tell me what?"

"That isn't my place to confess," Roman said.

"You don't get to drop a number like that and walk away," I demanded, stepping into his path.

"Ask your sister," he said.

He turned his back to me and walked toward the elevator.

His restraint stung worse than his anger. He wasn't trying to smear her anymore. He was protecting a secret my own sister still kept from me.

At two o'clock the next afternoon, the projector hummed in the offensive film room.

"Roll the tape back," Roman instructed the assistant coach.

I adjusted the focus ring on my camera. We were pushing the private conflict into the strict framework of a Tuesday practice schedule.

On the screen, the opposing defense shifted into a cover-two shell. Roman dropped back in the pocket, then threw the ball directly into the hands of a waiting safety.

"I misread the linebacker's drop," Roman said, pointing a laser pointer at the frozen frame. "My eyes were in the wrong place."

"Did the right tackle miss his blocking assignment?" I asked from behind the lens. "He looks late off the snap."

Roman lowered the laser pointer. He looked directly into my camera lens.

"The tackle didn't throw the interception," Roman said. "I did. Keep that admission in the final edit. Don't cut it to make the offensive line look bad."

"Miles prefers the angle where the star player blames the supporting cast," I pointed out.

"Miles doesn't play in the pocket," Roman replied. "I do."

He didn't fear ugly footage. He feared a clip lacking cause and effect, an isolated moment used to define a person's entire character. He possessed rigid professional boundaries now. It only highlighted the bitter truth: four years ago, he spoke the words that ruined Talia without doing the work to verify them.

The film session ended. I packed my lenses into the padded carrying case.

Heavy footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor of the facility hallway. Victor Shaw walked through the double doors, a leather briefcase gripped in his right hand.

He stopped next to the hydration station, shaking Roman’s hand.

"Good session?" Victor asked.

"Standard review," Roman answered, wiping a towel across the back of his neck.

Victor turned his attention to me. The polite smile returned to his face.

"Your sister was highly talented," Victor said, his tone conversational. "She was just too fond of turning personal problems into professional stories."

I zipped my equipment bag closed. I stood up, facing him directly.

"Do you still have the device management records from four years ago?" I asked.

Victor’s smile faded by a fraction of an inch. The warmth vanished from his eyes.

"All compliance materials were processed and disposed of according to standard protocol," Victor said. "You shouldn't invent fake doubts just to create drama for a documentary."

Roman stepped forward, tossing his towel onto a nearby bench. "Victor—"

"I am only asking a technical question," I interrupted, cutting Roman off.

Victor looked down at the press pass resting against my chest. He stared at the bold letters spelling out my last name.

"If you are smarter than your sister," Victor said softly, "you will know when not to let a surname ruin a second career."