CHAPTER 32

Helena’s POV

The first thing I noticed when I stepped into the studio was the smell of cold coffee, hairspray, and that faint plastic scent of studio lights that had been on too long. It smelled like every interview I’d ever done, except this one felt different.

This one felt like a trap.

“Helena, we’re so excited to have you,” the producer said, touching my elbow like we were old friends. “Just a quick chat that'll be light and fun. We’ll talk about the reforms, the new policies, and… you know… Jarrett’s run.”

She said his name and my jaw ticked. I smiled anyway. I had gotten very good at smiling when I wanted to flip a table.

“Of course,” I said. “Whatever you want.”

That was a lie.

Three months earlier the league had been on fire. Emails had been leaked, executives were fired, and players were caught in contracts that shouldn’t have existed.

I was the one who walked into the boardroom with a 200-page report and didn’t blink when half the room tried to call me emotional. I was the one who pushed the new transparency rules through at 2am while lawyers screamed at me.

Now the headlines read: “Jarrett Brooks’ Girlfriend Cleans Up the League.”

They didn't address me as an executive, not even by name, just his girlfriend.

The makeup artist dabbed powder under my eyes. “You look tired,” she said kindly.

“I am,” I said. “I’ve been working.”

She laughed like it was a joke.

In the green room, my phone buzzed with Jarrett's message.

*I'm watching. Don’t murder anyone on live tv. Love you. - J* his message read followed by a photo of him in the locker room, with his tie loose and that stupid arrogant smirk on his face.

Behind him, half the team was pretending not to watch the monitor on the wall.

I snorted at the sight. The truth was, I didn’t know how we got there.

Six months ago I would’ve laughed if you told me I’d be dating Jarrett Brooks, the man with the ego the size of the arena and the habit of staring at me like I personally offended him by existing.

He was loud. He was infuriating. He showed up to my office with coffee he didn’t ask if I wanted and stayed until I admitted I was right.

He also sat with me in my apartment at 3am when the death threats came in. He didn’t say much. He just made tea and said, “You’re not crazy. They’re scared of you.”

Now the world wanted to reduce all of that to a byline.

The red light came on.

“Welcome back to Prime Sports Tonight,” the host said, all teeth. “I’m sitting with Helena Reyes, the woman credited with dragging our league into the light. Helena, thank you for being here.”

“Thanks for having me.”

“Let’s start with the obvious. The league was a mess. You came in, you blew it up, and now it’s clean. How did that feel?”

It felt like I hadn’t slept. It felt like my inbox was still a warzone. It felt like I was being asked to smile about it.

“It felt necessary,” I said. “This wasn’t about me. This was about players who deserved fair contracts. About fans who deserved to know the game wasn’t rigged. About staff who were silenced. We did the work. The league was better for it.”

She nodded, but her eyes slid to the card on her desk. I saw what it read 'Relationship angle.'

“So,” she said, her voice going softer, like this was the real question. “And you had a lot of support through this. Jarrett Brooks was very vocal about you. He called you ‘the toughest person he’s ever met’ after your last press conference. How did having him in your corner help?”

There it was. The pivot.

Three months ago I would’ve deflected. I would’ve said “He’s been supportive” and moved on. I would’ve protected both of us by making myself smaller.

I wasn’t doing that anymore.

I leaned forward. The lights were hot.

“Jarrett was my partner,” I said. “He showed up. He listened. He didn’t try to fix me or speak for me. And I was grateful for that. I was proud of the life we were building together.”

The host smiled, satisfied.

“But,” I continued, and I saw her pen pause, “let’s be clear about something. I didn’t clean up this league because I was dating Jarrett Brooks. I cleaned up this league because I’m Helena Reyes. Because I spent ten years in operations, in legal, in rooms where no one thought I belonged. Because I read every contract and every email and I was done watching people get hurt.”

Her smile flickered.

“The media kept calling me ‘Jarrett Brooks’ girlfriend’ like that was my title. It wasn’t. I belonged to no one but myself. I made those choices. I did that work. I took the credit and I took the blame. Jarrett was a part of my life, and a part I was very proud of. But he was not my achievement.”

There was silence for a while, then the host recovered. “Wow. Strong words.”

“Factual words,” I said, and I could feel my heart hammering but my voice was steady. “I think we do women a disservice when we assume their success has to be attached to a man. Jarrett would say the same thing. Ask him.”

She laughed, uncomfortable. “I’m sure he would. Speaking of, the team was in the finals. It must have been exciting to watch him play while you were...”

“I was proud of him,” I cut in, softer now. “I was proud of how hard he worked. I was proud of how he led his team. And I was going to be in the stands for every game, screaming like an idiot. Because I loved him. And because I got to. But that didn’t change what I did from 9 to 5. Or 9 to 2am.”

We wrapped up 10 minutes later. She thanked me. The producer said “That was great” in a tone that meant we didn’t get what we wanted.

I walked out, legs shaking for the first time all day.

My phone was blowing up before I hit the hallway.

'Jarrett: DID YOU SEE MY FACE'

'Jarrett: I’m gonna frame the moment you said ‘I belong to no one but myself,'

'Jarrett: Also coach is pissed I wasn’t paying attention to the drill'

'Jarrett: Come to the game tonight. Sit behind the bench. I want to look at you and remember why I’m doing this.'

I leaned against the wall and laughed. It came out shaky.

The clip was online within 20 minutes. “Helena Reyes shut down interviewer.”

“‘I belong to no one but myself’ goes viral.”

The comments were a mess. Half were “queen,” half were “she’s ungrateful,” and a weird number were debating my lipstick.

I didn’t read them. Instead I went home, changed, and drove to the arena.

The locker room was chaotic when I got there. Jerseys everywhere, the music was too loud. Jarrett saw me and his whole face changed. The arrogant smirk dropped and he just looked… relieved.

“You did it,” he said, pulling me into a hug that smelled like tape and sweat. “You said exactly what needed to be said.”

“I was scared,” I admitted into his shoulder.

“I know.” He pulled back, thumbs under my eyes like he was checking for tears that weren’t there. “You’re still the scariest person in any room, Reyes. Don’t forget it.”

The coach yelled his name. Jarrett rolled his eyes. “Gotta go. Don’t let them feed you bad arena food.”

“I’ll be behind the bench,” I said. “Yelling.”

“Good. I played better when you were yelling.”

He kissed me, quick and hard, then jogged off, already shouting at a rookie.

I took my seat. The arena was full. The energy was different now. There were apologies made. Policies changed. Players got paid. It wasn’t perfect, but it was moving.

The game started. Jarrett scored in the second period and looked straight at me when he did it. The smirk on his face was back.

On the jumbotron during intermission, they played a 5-second clip of my interview. The crowd cheered for the statement and for the idea that someone finally said it out loud.

Afterwards, we won. They were heading to the finals.

In the hallway after, a young reporter stopped me. She was maybe 22, holding a recorder like a shield.

“Ms. Reyes? Can I ask you one question? Not about Jarrett. About the new whistleblower policy.”

I stopped. “Yeah. Ask me.”

And she did. And we talked for 15 minutes about enforcement and protection and what came next. She took notes. She called me Ms. Reyes.

Walking out to the car, Jarrett’s hand in mine, I thought about months ago. The scandal. The fear. The nights I thought I’d lose my job for telling the truth.

The world had tried to make me a footnote in someone else’s story.

I wasn’t because I was the author.

And the new era? It started the moment I decided to say my own name first.

Jarrett squeezed my hand. “You good?”

“I was good,” I said. He grinned, that trademark arrogant smirk. “Damn right you were.”