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Leaked
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2026-05-30 05:27:53“Tell me this is fake.”
My phone hit the table between us.
The headline glared up in bold black letters.
Anonymous Source: Star Teammates Were Secretly Involved for Years.
Blake didn’t touch the phone.
He just stared at it.
Goal right now?
Contain it. Control it. Kill the story before it kills us.
“Where did it start?” he asked, voice steady in a way that scared me.
“SportsBreak forum first. Then a blog picked it up. Now it’s everywhere.”
His jaw tightened.
The article didn’t name dates.
Didn’t give proof.
But it didn’t have to.
It hinted.
Youth camp photos.
The old championship clip where we looked at each other too long.
They almost kissed in the hallway last week.
They connected dots we had tried to erase.
“They’re calling it a long-running secret romance,” I said flatly.
Blake finally looked up at me.
There was no anger in his eyes.
Just calculation.
“Who’s the source?” he asked.
“Anonymous.”
“Convenient.”
My stomach twisted.
This wasn’t just gossip.
It was dangerous.
Our biggest sponsor had a morals clause in both our contracts.
No scandals.
No distractions.
No behavior that could “harm brand image.”
And secret relationships between team leaders?
That counted.
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Yes?”
A smooth voice came through.
“Good morning. This is Clara from Vantage Athletics. We’d like to schedule a call immediately.”
Sponsor pressure.
My throat went dry.
“Of course,” I said. “We’re available.”
Blake watched me hang up.
“Vantage?” he asked.
I nodded.
He swore under his breath.
“They won’t drop us over a rumor,” he said.
“They might freeze the campaign.”
The campaign we shot last month.
The one launching next week.
Built around rivalry.
Competition.
Not romance.
Another buzz.
This time Blake’s phone.
He glanced at it and went still.
“It’s Hale.”
The owner.
Of course it was.
He answered the speaker.
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Hale didn’t bother with greetings.
“What the hell did you two do?”
His voice filled the room like smoke.
“Nothing,” Blake said evenly.
“Then why is my inbox full of board members asking if our franchise captains are lying to the public?”
Silence.
I forced myself to speak.
“It’s an anonymous rumor. There’s no proof.”
“Proof?” Mr. Hale barked. “Perception is proof.”
Conflict rose fast.
“We’ve done nothing wrong,” Blake said.
“You nearly kissed in a hallway full of cameras,” Mr. Hale shot back.
My chest tightened.
“It wasn’t like that,” I said.
“Oh?” His tone turned cold. “Then explain what it was like.”
I couldn’t.
Because I didn’t know what to call it.
A mistake?
A moment?
The truth finally slipping through?
“We need a statement,” Mr. Hale said sharply. “Today. Deny everything.”
The words landed heavy.
Deny everything.
Blake’s hand brushed mine under the table.
Steady.
“We can say we’re focused on the season,” he said.
“No,” Mr. Hale snapped. “You say there has never been any romantic involvement. Past or present.”
My heart skipped.
Past or present.
That meant erasing years.
Erasing youth camp looks.
Erasing the championship kiss that no one knew about.
Erasing us.
“That’s a lie,” I said before I could stop myself.
Blake’s fingers tightened around mine.
Mr. Hale went quiet for a beat.
Then, softly, “Is it?”
The question hung in the air.
Dangerous.
“We’re talking about a long time ago,” Blake said carefully.
“I don’t care if it was kindergarten,” Mr. Hale replied. “If this becomes a story about deception, we lose leverage.”
Leverage.
Not trust.
Not integrity.
Leverage.
“You built an entire marketing push on our rivalry,” I said. “You knew this could surface.”
“I built it on tension,” he corrected. “Not romance.”
The difference felt thin.
“If sponsors think you manipulated fans with a fake feud,” he continued, “they’ll pull funding.”
Fake feud.
The words hit hard.
It hadn’t been fake.
It had been messy and real and painful.
“Deny it,” he repeated. “Or I start making calls you won’t like.”
The threat wasn’t subtle.
Trades.
Reduced minutes.
Benching.
Blake’s jaw flexed.
“We’ll handle it,” he said.
“See that you do.”
The line went dead.
Silence rushed in.
My hand slipped from his.
“They can’t force us to lie,” I said quietly.
“They can bench us.”
“That would make it worse.”
“Not for them,” he said. “For us.”
Emotional tension coiled tight between us.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
I stared at the article again.
It mentioned a source claiming we were “more than teammates” during our first championship season.
No names.
No dates.
But enough detail to sting.
“Someone knows,” I whispered.
Blake nodded once.
“Or someone’s guessing well.”
“You think Hale leaked it?” I asked.
His eyes flicked up.
“It boosts engagement.”
“He sounded furious.”
“He always sounds furious.”
A bitter smile tugged at my mouth.
True.
My phone buzzed again.
Social media notifications flooding in.
Fans are divided.
Some are excited.
Some are angry.
Some accuse us of lying for years.
Reputation at risk.
“They’re calling us frauds,” I said softly.
Blake stood abruptly, pacing.
“I don’t care about trolls,” he muttered.
“I do.”
He stopped in front of me.
“Why?”
“Because I worked too hard to be taken seriously.”
“And you think loving someone makes you weak?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you’re implying.”
The accusation stung.
“I’m saying they’ll reduce us to a headline,” I shot back. “Not athletes. Not leaders. Just a scandal.”
His expression shifted.
Softer.
“They already do that,” he said quietly. “With or without proof.”
The truth is that it hurts.
My phone buzzed again.
This time a message from a teammate.
Is it true?
Simple.
Direct.
Terrifying.
Blake saw my screen.
“They’re asking already.”
I nodded.
“They deserve honesty.”
“Do they?” he asked. “Or do they deserve focus?”
Conflict cut deep.
Honesty meant admitting we had once been something real.
Denying meant protecting careers built on careful distance.
“Press conference in an hour,” Blake said suddenly. “Hale just texted.”
Escalation.
Public denial.
My stomach dropped.
“They’re moving fast,” I whispered.
“They always do.”
He stepped closer.
Close enough that I could feel his warmth.
“We have to be on the same page,” he said.
“Are we?”
His eyes searched mine.
“Were you ever going to tell them?” I asked.
“About us?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated.
That hesitation hurt more than the rumor.
“I didn’t think it mattered anymore,” he said finally.
“It mattered to me.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Regret flickered across his face.
“I never wanted to hide you,” he said quietly.
“You did.”
“I wanted to protect you.”
“From what?”
“This.”
He gestured at the phone.
The noise.
The chaos.
The doubt.
A knock hit the door.
PR manager.
“Five minutes,” she called.
Blake looked at me.
“So,” he said softly. “We deny everything?”
My chest felt tight.
If we say yes, we erase our past.
If we say no, we risk everything we built.
“They want us to say there was never anything,” I whispered.
He nodded.
“Was there?” he asked gently.
The question stole my breath.
Because the answer wasn’t simple.
Not then.
Not now.
“Yes,” I said finally.
His eyes closed briefly.
“Then denying it…” His voice trailed off.
“Feels like betrayal,” I finished.
Another knock.
“Time.”
Blake held out his hand.
Not for show.
For strength.
I took it.
Just for a second.
Then we let go.
As we walked toward the press room, cameras already flashing beyond the doors, one thought kept echoing in my head
If someone leaked this now…
Who benefits most from forcing us to lie?
Latest chapter
only one crown Overtime
“The last goal wins.”I barely get the words out before Damon steals the puck off my stick.“Cheater,” I mutter, spinning to chase him.He laughs, the sound echoing across the empty rink. It’s just us tonight. No crowd. No cameras. No analysts dissecting every move.Just the scrape of blades on fresh ice and the hum of the overhead lights.Private rink. Off-season. Months after the championship.Months after the press conference.Months after we stopped pretending.Damon cuts left, fast and clean. I lunge, hook his stick just enough to throw him off balance.“Hooking!” he calls.“Play through it,” I shoot back.He regains control anyway. Of course he does. He always does.The air smells cold and sharp, like clean beginnings. The arena seats are dark, empty rows stretching up into shadow. The champion
only one crown No More Secrets
“Are you two together?” The question slices through the press room like a blade. No one laughs. No one pretends they didn’t hear it. Every camera zooms in. I feel Damon is still beside me. Flashes burst, white and blinding. The Kings logo looms behind us on the backdrop, repeated over and over like a reminder of what’s at stake. We just signed identical five-year extensions. Same day. Same numbers. Same clause structure. The media already called it unprecedented. Now they want something else. A headline bigger than hockey. I adjust the mic in front of me. It screeches softly. My goal today was simple. Shut down trade rumors. Reassure sponsors. Talk about leadership, culture, championships. Not this. Damon leans back in his chair, jaw tight but controlled. He’s better at hiding nerves than I am. Always has been. But I know him. I see the pulse ticking in his throat. The reporter doesn’t back down. “You live in the same building. You vacationed together during the
only one crown Only One Crown
The buzzer screams.For a split second, I don’t understand what I’m hearing.Then the red light flashes.Gloves fly.The arena explodes.We won.Game Seven. Overtime. Championship.I’m still on my knees in front of the crease, lungs burning, sticking half out of my hand. The puck is in the net behind the goalie behind both of us.Because Damon and I were both there.Both hacking at it.Both refusing to lose.And when it slipped through the smallest opening between skate and post, neither of us knew whose stick touched it last.It doesn’t matter.We won.Bodies crash into me from behind. Teammates pile on. Someone shouts my name. Someone else is crying. The ice smells like sweat and metal and victory.But through the chaos, I’m looking for him.Damon.He’s a few feet away, on his back, staring up at the rafters like he’s not sure this is real.For a heartbeat, everything fades except the two of us.We did it.Together.They said we couldn’t.Two captains. Two egos. Two stars fighting f
only one crown The Choice
Empty net!”The shout tears through the noise just as the puck slides onto my stick.Their goalie is sprinting to the bench.Six attackers are coming.Thirty-two seconds left.We’re up by one.I cross center ice and see it the wide, open goal at the far end of the rink. No goalie. No defender was close enough to stop me.If I shoot now, it’s over.Championship sealed.Legacy cemented.The commentators have been saying it all week. If I win this Cup, with this roster, after this season, the debate ends.Greatest of all time.The shot that defines everything.The arena is on its feet.My skates carve over the blue line. The puck feels light on my blade, almost weightless. Like it knows what it’s about to become.A goal.A headline.A statue one day, maybe.Behind me, I hear Damon’s stride.Fast. Controlled. Close.He’s open to my left.He doesn’t call for it.He doesn’t need to.Three years ago, we were drafted into the same franchise and told we’d never work together.Too competitive.
only one crown Final Faceoff
Drop the puck.”The referee’s voice barely cuts through the roar.Game Seven.Championship night.The winner takes the Cup.Loser takes the silence.I lean forward at center ice, skates biting into the surface. The arena lights burn white overhead, too bright, almost cruel. Across from me, Damon Vale adjusts his grip on his stick.Boston blue.Not ours.Not anymore.For a second, the noise fades. It’s just the two of us in the circle like it used to be in practice trash talk under our breath, shoulders bumping, fighting for control.Only now, there are twenty thousand people watching.And the Cup waiting behind the glass.“You good?” he asks quietly.The audacity almost makes me laugh.“You?”His mouth tilts. “Always.”Liar.The puck slams down.We both lunge.His stick clashes with mine sharp, violent. He wins the draw by a fraction, batting it back to his defenseman.The crowd explodes.The game begins.This is what it’s come to.After the trade. After the buyout war. After the owne
only one crown The Buyout
Don’t sign it.”Damon’s voice cuts across the conference table just as the pen touches paper.Every head in the room snaps toward him.Victor Hale doesn’t look up. “This meeting doesn’t concern you anymore.”“It concerns him,” Damon says, stepping fully into the glass-walled boardroom. “And he hasn’t signed yet.”My hand freezes.The contract in front of me is thick. Final. A revised extension that locks me into the Kings for five more years. After last week’s press conference stunt, this was the compromise public reconciliation, private control.Sign, and the investigation talk “goes away.”Refuse, and I’m benched indefinitely for “conduct detrimental.”Simple.Clean.Calculated.Victor finally lifts his gaze. “Security let you in?”“I didn’t ask security.”Damon looks different in a suit. Sharper. Harder. Boston blue traded for charcoal gray. But his eyes are the same steady, storm-dark, fixed on me.My goal is simple.Protect my career.Keep playing.Keep fighting from inside.But
only one crown After-Hours on Ice
The sound of a slap shot broke the silence.It echoed through the empty arena, sharp and angry.I froze at the top of the stairs.Midnight. The rink was supposed to be closed. Lights off. Doors locked.Another shot rang out. Harder this time. The puck hit the boards with a crack that made my jaw ti
only one crown The First Power Play
The puck slammed against the boards and flew past my stick.“Dammit, Blake!” I shouted.Blake didn’t even look at me. He chased the puck like I didn’t exist.The crowd roared. Lights burned above us. The ice cut under my skates as I pushed hard and caught up, but it was too late. Their forward stol
only one crown Ghosts in the Locker Room
Hook The locker room door clicked shut.Silence.For the first time since the trade, it was just us.No teammates.No coaches.No cameras.Just the low hum of the air system and the sharp smell of ice and sweat.I was at my stall, pulling off my gloves, when I felt him behind me.“You waited,” Adri
only one crown The Contract Clause
Don’t hang up.”My agent’s voice cracked through the phone before I could say hello.I was halfway out of my gear, sweat still cooling on my back after practice. The locker room was loud, but not loud enough to block the edge in his tone.“What now?” I asked.Silence.Then, “We need to talk about y
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