I earned my Seattle Comets job two years before my little brother ever wore an NHL jersey.

Once Mason became the league's favorite rookie, people still called me the sister who got lucky.

Evan was the one person who swore he saw Riley Brooks, not Mason's access pass.

I trusted him enough to let him review my private campaign drafts after midnight.

At a league charity launch, I watched influencer Sloane Hart present my unpublished winter tagline as if it were hers.

Evan kissed my temple and told me I was imagining things.

An hour later, I found his mouth on hers behind the media lounge.

When I demanded my files back, he grabbed my credential and told me nobody would believe I created anything without my brother.

Vancouver captain Declan Vale stepped between us just before the cameras arrived.

Then I heard Evan and Sloane arguing behind the service door.

"Relax. She'll blame me, not you."

"You're sure she won't expose the deck if she finds out?"

"She can't. Half those sponsor ideas came from her team account."

"She won't risk Mason's rookie season to save her own name."

***

"Cold Front. Hot Hands."

The tagline glared off the main stage monitor, ten feet high and undeniably stolen.

I stopped adjusting the livestream audio feed and stared at the stage. Sloane Hart, a hockey lifestyle creator, paced under the spotlights. She was currently pitching my private winter campaign draft to the league sponsors, presenting every detail as her own fresh concept.

"Did you open my cloud folder?" I asked, turning to Evan.

My boyfriend of three years lowered his camera, the heavy lens thumping against his chest. "What?"

"The glove tap challenge," I pointed at the screen. "That’s my exact storyboard. Did you show her my portfolio?"

He wiped a thumb across my forehead, brushing away a stray hair. "Coincidences happen in marketing all the time, Ry."

"She used my exact phrasing. She even pitched the fan-voting mechanic I sketched out on Tuesday."

"Are you sure you aren't just sensitive right now?" Evan adjusted his camera strap, his tone painfully condescending. "Mason has been taking a beating from Declan Vale on the ice lately. You're projecting your brother's stress onto a basic PR pitch."

I stared at him. For three years, Evan had been the one telling me I didn't need my brother's name to succeed. He knew I earned my spot in the Comets' front office two years before Mason even got drafted. Now, he was using my brother's rookie struggles to gaslight me.

"That is my work," I said, keeping my voice low.

"Don't cause a scene," Evan muttered, lifting his camera to snap another photo of Sloane. "I need to get these sponsor shots."

An hour later, the charity event transitioned into a cocktail mixer.

"You riding back with us later?" Mason asked, leaning against the player's lounge barricade. My younger brother looked exhausted, a fresh purple bruise shadowing his jawline.

"Go ahead without me," I told him, forcing a smile. "Evan's just swamped with sponsor photos. I don't want to drag you into our schedule."

"You sure? You look pale."

"I'm fine. Go ice that jaw."

Mason nodded and vanished into the crowd. I checked my phone. Two rejected calls to Evan. Every time Sloane vanished from the media pit, Evan's camera was nowhere to be found.

I needed my backup drive for the B-roll footage. I turned and marched toward the media lounge.

A solid wall of muscle in a custom navy suit blocked the narrow corridor.

Declan Vale. Vancouver Breakers captain.

He held a plastic cup of water, looking down at the two heavy credentials swinging from my neck. This was the guy who hammered Mason into the boards on opening night, then mocked him to the press for losing his temper.

"Is Seattle letting the Brooks family run the entire charity event now?" Declan drawled, his voice rough and amused.

I tightened my grip on my camera rig. "At least we know when to shut our mics off."

Declan chuckled, stepping aside just enough to let me pass. "Careful in there. The media vultures are circling."

I ignored him and kept walking.

The side door to the media lounge sat cracked open.

Sloane’s high-pitched laugh leaked into the hallway. "You should have showed me her clever little drafts weeks ago, Ev. The sponsors loved it."

I pushed the door wide.

Evan’s hand rested flat against the bare skin of Sloane’s lower back. They jumped apart, but the space between them screamed the truth.

"How long?" I asked.

Evan dropped his hand to his side. "Don't do this here, Riley."

"How long have you been sleeping with her?"

"You’ve spent the last six months obsessed with Mason’s rookie season," Evan snapped, his jaw tight. "Any normal guy would get sick of coming in second to a hockey player. You never have time for us."

Sloane reached for the silver USB drive resting on the table. My backup drive. The one holding my entire portfolio, the one I trusted Evan to organize.

"Leave it," I demanded, stepping forward.

Sloane snatched the metal casing.

I reached for her wrist, but Evan caught the lanyard around my neck. He yanked downward, pulling me off balance. The rough nylon burned the back of my neck.

"Without Mason," Evan hissed, stepping into my space, "you wouldn't even have the clearance to walk into this room. Stop acting like you own the place."

"Take your hands off her."

The low, gravelly voice cut through the room. Declan stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame. He tossed his plastic cup into a nearby bin.

Evan sneered, releasing my lanyard to shove Declan’s chest. "Stick to the ice, Vale. All you know how to do is throw punches for the camera."

Declan didn't flinch. He shoved Evan back. Hard.

Evan slammed into the drywall. Before he could recover, Declan’s fist connected with his jaw. The sharp crack echoed off the acoustic panels. Evan crumpled to the floor, holding his face.

Three smartphones appeared in the doorway, red recording lights blinking.

Ten minutes later, Jenna Ortiz, the league PR director, locked the small conference room door behind us. Security stood outside in the hall.

"The ten-second clip is already everywhere," Jenna said, rubbing her temples. She tossed her tablet onto the table. "Breakers captain attacks Comets staffer's boyfriend. Do you have any idea what a nightmare this is?"

Evan leaned close to my ear while Jenna typed furiously on her phone.

"Drop the issue with the drive and Sloane," Evan whispered, dabbing blood from his split lip with a tissue. "Do that, and I'll tell the press I swung at Declan first. I'll even say Sloane was just a drunken mistake. We can fix this."

I stared at the man I had trusted for three years. He thought I was weak. He thought I would fold to protect my job.

"Jenna," I called out, my voice perfectly steady.

I unclipped the B-roll camera from my belt and slid it across the glass table.

"Check the timestamps," I said. "It was rolling the entire time."

Evan's face drained of color. "Riley, don't."

Jenna picked up the camera, flipping open the side screen. The raw footage played loudly in the quiet room. Evan yanking my credential. Declan warning him twice. Evan shoving Declan first. The truth, completely unedited.

Jenna sighed heavily, pausing the video. "This proves provocation, but Vale still threw the punch. Mandatory image rehab starts tomorrow. We can't avoid that."

I grabbed my coat from the chair and left the room.

The hallway was empty, save for two voices echoing from the service stairwell. I stopped walking.

"Are you crazy?" Sloane hissed, her shadow stretching across the floor. "She's going to ruin us. She has the original files."

"Relax," Evan replied, his voice muffled. "She won't risk dragging Mason's rookie season into a media circus just to save her own name. She always protects her brother first."

My thumb hovered over my phone screen. I opened my cloud management app, selected the shared access logs, and tapped export.

The progress bar hit one hundred percent, locking my evidence into a secure file.

"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.

"Brooks, do not cut my locker room swearing into inspirational subtitles."

The heavy wooden door to the Vancouver Breakers' locker room slammed shut right in my face. The metal hinges rattled from the force.

"Don't worry, Vale," I called out, adjusting the audio receiver strapped to my belt. "I have plenty of material without digging through your trash."

The door swung open again. Declan stepped into the corridor, fully geared up in his dark practice jersey and heavy shoulder pads. He gripped his composite hockey stick, and I noticed the fresh split in the skin between his thumb and index finger. Bright red blood welled against the white athletic tape wrapped around his lower hand. He had not lowered his training intensity at all, despite the PR team's mandate to take it easy on camera.

"Is that going to mess with your stick grip?" I asked, pointing my camera lens at his gloves.

Declan stopped walking. A mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't Grant teach you not to care about the rival captain?"

I lowered the camera rig, meeting his stare. "Grant is Mason's on-ice mentor. He is also my coworker. In the three years I dated Evan, Grant never crossed a single boundary."

The amusement vanished from Declan's face. His jaw set into a hard, unforgiving line.

"Then at least he knows the rules better than your ex," Declan said.

"Evan's lack of rules is exactly why I am standing in this hallway instead of producing my own campaign," I shot back, checking the battery pack on my monitor. "So let's just stick to the schedule."

"Fine by me," he muttered, turning toward the ice.

We moved out to the practice rink. I set up my tripod on the concrete walkway, shooting through the thick, scuffed plexiglass. Declan skated a quick, aggressive circle in the defensive zone before braking sharply right in front of my lens. A massive spray of shaved ice slammed against the barrier.

"I am not asking how you plan to fix your public image," I told him, speaking into the headset microphone that fed directly into his earpiece. "I want to know why you target Mason. Every time you match up against Seattle, your physical intensity doubles."

Declan leaned his heavy forearms on the top of his stick, his skates carving slightly into the frozen surface. "The most dangerous thing for a rookie isn't a lack of skill. It is the entire league telling him he is special."

"So you hammer him into the boards as a public service?"

"I make him pay a physical toll every time he crosses the blue line," Declan countered, his rough voice coming through my headphones crisp and cold. "Because that is exactly what he will face in the playoffs. If he wants to survive April, he needs to learn how to bleed for the puck in November."

I pressed my lips together, adjusting the focus ring on my lens. He was right. It mirrored my exact frustrations regarding my brother's career. Mason spent hours watching his own highlight reels on social media, soaking up the praise, but he scrolled past every turnover and missed assignment.

"If you see it so clearly," Declan asked, tapping his gloved fingers against the carbon fiber shaft of his stick, "why do you let everyone in this league call you the rookie's sister?"

"I corrected them for a year," I said, checking the exposure levels on the monitor. "Eventually, I decided to just put my head down and do my job."

Declan lifted his stick and struck the heavy blade against the glass. The sharp thwack made me flinch backward.

"Silence isn't consent, Brooks," Declan said, his gaze piercing right through the scratched barrier. "But people will take it as consent."

My fingers tightened around the metal tripod handle. The words dug straight into the bruised part of my pride. I had stayed quiet while Evan chipped away at my confidence. I had stayed quiet while Sloane paraded my private work around the charity mixer.

"I am not staying silent anymore," I told him, hitting the stop record button. "That is why I took this assignment."

Declan nodded once, a faint trace of respect flashing in his eyes before he pushed off the boards and skated back to the center ice.

By noon, the arena emptied out for lunch. I sat on a hard plastic folding chair in the concrete corridor, transferring the morning video files to my secure backup drive. The hum of the ice chillers filled the quiet space.

A voice echoed from the corner intersecting the weight room.

"Do not put the house on the market."

Declan. His tone lacked any of the arrogant drawl he used for the cameras. It sounded strained. Urgent.

"My bonus comes in next week," he continued, pacing just out of sight. His heavy footsteps echoed off the cinderblock walls. "I will handle the Vale Family Grill payment. Just give me five days."

A long pause stretched through the hallway.

"Just don't tell my sister," he finally muttered. "I don't want her worrying about the bank."

I grabbed the side handle of my camera and swung the lens away from the corner, aiming it dead center on the empty Zamboni entrance. I did not hit the red record button. I kept my hands busy coiling an XLR cable.

Heavy footsteps rounded the corner. Declan stopped short. He still held his phone in his taped hand. His eyes darted from my face to the camera rig, his posture instantly shifting into a defensive wall. He braced himself for the inevitable questions about his family's money.

"Private finances are not in the authorization," I said, keeping my focus entirely on the laptop screen.

Declan stared at me. He searched my expression for any sign of a lie, any hint that I was going to exploit his debt to manufacture drama for the documentary. I just plugged the coiled cable into my bag and closed the zipper.

"You heard the numbers," he challenged, taking a step closer.

"I heard a private conversation that has nothing to do with your on-ice performance," I replied, finally looking up at him. "My camera was pointed at the ice."

The tension eased from his shoulders. He checked the angle of my lens, then looked back at me.

"You really didn't record it."

"No."

Declan tucked his phone into his pocket. "Then I owe you the same courtesy. If I find anything on Sloane or Evan, I send it to you. I don't turn it into gossip."

My laptop chimed before I could answer. A message from Marcus Thorne filled the corner of the screen.

Secondary Cold Front tagline confirmed in Sloane's sponsor deck. It never existed on a Seattle server. Bring your personal access logs and every backup device to Legal at eight. Someone copied the private version.

I read the message twice. Only three people had ever touched that private file: me, Evan, and whoever had taken my silver drive at the charity event.

Declan saw my face change. "What happened?"

I closed the laptop. "Tomorrow I find out exactly how much of my work was stolen."