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There’s something almost poetic about watching your reputation die in real-time on social media, if poetry can be written in screenshotted headlines and comment sections full of strangers calling you a slut.

I’m curled on my couch in yesterday’s clothes, laptop balanced on my knees, refreshing feeds like I’m checking for signs of life in a corpse.

The photo’s everywhere now—ESPN, TMZ, local news outlets that usually stick to weather and traffic accidents.

Each repost makes it grainier, more sordid, like watching myself decompose in pixels.

My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing. Reporters wanting statements. Colleagues expressing “concern.” Numbers I don’t recognize fishing for gossip. I’ve turned off the ringer, but the screen keeps lighting up like a strobe light at my personal apocalypse.

Chicago Tribune Sports: “OUTLAWS THERAPIST IN INAPPROPRIATE RELATIONSHIP”

Deadspin: “When Keeping It Professional Goes Wrong”

Barstool: “Coach’s Daughter Scores with Problem Player - Team Chemistry Destroyed”

The last one includes a poll: “Who’s more at fault?” Sixty-seven percent blame me. Apparently, I’m a manipulative home-wrecker who seduced an innocent hockey player. The comments are even worse.

“She knew exactly what she was doing.”

“Daddy’s little princess wanted some rough trade.”

“Professional my ass - she’s just another puck bunny with a degree.”

I close the laptop before I can read more, but the words are already burned behind my eyelids. Two years of grad school, four years of undergrad, a doctorate in psychology—and I’ll be remembered as the coach’s daughter who couldn’t keep her legs closed.

My apartment feels too small suddenly. These walls that used to represent independence now feel like a jail cell. Everything’s tainted—the kitchen where I planned sessions, the bedroom where I dreamed of being respected, the bathroom mirror that shows a woman I don’t recognize anymore.

The formal email from Patricia arrived this morning.

Dr. Clark,

In light of recent events, the Board of Directors requests your formal resignation effective immediately. A severance package will be provided contingent upon your signing the attached non-disclosure agreement.

We appreciate your service to the organization.

Patricia Holbrook, General Manager

Appreciate my service. Like I was a coffee machine they’re replacing, not a human being they’re discarding because I became inconvenient.

I haven’t opened the NDA yet. Don’t want to see what they’re willing to pay for my silence, what details they’re desperate to keep buried.

But the message is clear: disappear quietly, and maybe I’ll land somewhere else eventually.

Fight this, and they’ll make sure I never work in professional sports again.

My father hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Radio silence from the man who controlled every aspect of my life until I dared to want something he didn’t approve of. The absence of his disappointment somehow feels worse than his presence.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s not a reporter or a colleague or a stranger with opinions about my life choices.

It’s Reed.

Reed: They want me to cut you off publicly. Tell the world you meant nothing.

Reed: I’m not doing it.

Reed: Whatever happens, I’m not throwing you away to save my career.

I stare at the messages until they blur. He’s choosing me over hockey—the only thing that’s ever mattered to him. Choosing us over the career he’s spent his life building. And all I can think is how stupid that is, how he doesn’t understand that saving me isn’t worth destroying himself.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I type and delete seventeen different responses:

You should save yourself.

It’s not worth it.

I’m not your responsibility.

I love you.

Run.

None of them feel right. How do you respond to someone willing to sacrifice everything for something that was doomed from the start? How do you tell them they’re making a mistake when their mistake is you?

Instead, I set the phone aside and bury my face in the throw pillow.

The crying comes in waves. Not pretty tears but ugly sobs that shake my whole body. Grief for the career I’ll never have. Rage at the system that punishes women for wanting. Fear of what comes next when the only life I’ve known crumbles to ash.

But underneath it all, a small voice whispers the truth I can’t admit aloud. I don’t regret him. Even knowing how it ends, I don’t regret Vegas, or the equipment shed or any of the stolen moments that felt more real than anything else in my scheduled existence.

A knock at my door makes me freeze. Reporters? My father come to deliver one final lecture? I ignore it, hoping whoever it is will take the hint and leave.

“Chelsea? It’s me.”

Maddy. Of course. PR professionals never know when to quit.

I shuffle to the door, catching my reflection in the hallway mirror. Mascara streaked down my cheeks. Hair in a rats’ nest. Looking exactly like the kind of woman who’d throw away her career for a hockey player.

“Oh, Chelsea,” Maddy observes when I open the door, holding up a bottle of wine like a peace offering. “Good thing I brought reinforcements.”

“I’m not really in the mood for company.”

“Which is exactly when you need it most.” She pushes past me, heading straight for my kitchen. “Trust me, I’ve shepherded enough people through public disgrace to know the warning signs. Isolation leads to bad decisions.”

“Worse than the ones I’ve already made?”

“You’d be surprised.” She’s already uncorking the wine, movements efficient and professional. “I’ve had clients try to flee the country. Others wanted to fake their own deaths. One guy seriously considered witness protection.”

“How’d that work out for him?”

“He’s selling insurance in Toledo now. Makes decent money, but his sex life never recovered.”

Despite everything, I almost smile. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“It’s supposed to be perspective.” She hands me a glass of wine. “This feels like the end of the world, but it’s not. It’s just the end of this world.”

We settle on my couch, and for a few minutes, we drink in silence. The wine is good—smooth and expensive and nothing like the cheap bottles I usually buy. Crisis wine, apparently, comes with a higher price tag.

“So,” Maddy says finally, “how long?”

“How long what?”

“Don’t play dumb. How long have you been in love with him?”

The question hits me right in the chest. Not whether I slept with him or violated ethics or destroyed my career. Whether I love him.

“I’m not—”

“Chelsea.” Her voice goes gentle. “I saw your face during that board meeting. That wasn’t embarrassment or regret. That was heartbreak.”

“It doesn’t matter what I feel.”

“It’s the only thing that matters. Because if this was just sex, just some fling that got out of hand, then yeah—throw him under the bus and try to salvage something. But if you love him...”

“Then what? We ride off into the sunset? Start over somewhere new?” I laugh, but it sounds like breaking. “This isn’t a romance novel, Maddy. Real life doesn’t work that way.”

“Sometimes it does.”

“When? Name one time when choosing love over logic actually worked out.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, swirling wine in her glass. “My parents.”

“What?”

“My mom was a journalist. My dad was the mayor she was investigating for corruption. They met during an interview, fell hard, and she had to choose between the story that would make her career and the man who was making her happy.”

“What did she choose?”

“Both. She broke the story, he went to prison for two years, and when he got out, they got married.” Maddy’s smile is soft, real. “Sometimes love is worth the chaos it creates.”

“Your dad went to prison.”

“He was guilty. But he was also the love of her life. Twenty-five years later, they’re still stupid happy.”

“That’s different. Your mom didn’t destroy her career—”

“She absolutely did. No one trusted her after that. Colleagues said she was compromised, that she couldn’t be objective. She spent five years freelancing for alt-weeklies before anyone would hire her full-time again.”

“But she survived.”

“She did more than survive. She built something better.” Maddy refills our glasses. “Look, I’m not saying your situation is identical. But maybe—maybe this isn’t the disaster you think it is. Maybe it’s just the thing that forces you to figure out what you actually want.”

“I want my career back.”

“Do you? Or do you want the version of success your father painted for you?”

The question hangs between us like smoke. Because she’s right, isn’t she? I’ve been chasing Chris Clark’s definition of achievement for so long I forgot to ask if it was making me happy.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to know tonight.” She leans back, studying me with those sharp eyes. “But can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“The equipment shed incident—was that the only time?”

I freeze, wine halfway to my lips. “What?”

“The blackmail texts mention equipment shed photos specifically. I’m trying to figure out how much damage we’re looking at.”

“We?”

“The team. The organization. Damage control requires knowing the full scope.” Her voice is carefully neutral, but something feels off. Too practiced. Too prepared.

“I thought you said this was about what I want, not damage control.”

“It’s both. I can’t help you if I don’t know everything.”

“Help me what? Figure out my feelings or manage the crisis?”

“Chelsea—”

“No.” I set down my wine, the pieces clicking together with sickening clarity. “You’re working. Right now. This isn’t friendship—it’s reconnaissance.”

“That’s not—”

“You’re here to find out what other photos exist. What other evidence could surface. How much worse this could get.” I stand, backing away from her. “Everything you just said about love and choice and building something better—that was just you getting me to open up.”

“I do want to help you—”

“But you want to help the team more.” The betrayal tastes like copper. “Jesus, Maddy. I trusted you.”

“You can still trust me. This doesn’t have to be adversarial.”

“Doesn’t it? You work for them. You’re paid to protect their interests. And their interest is making this go away quietly.”

She doesn’t deny it, which is answer enough.

“How many others are there?” I ask quietly. “Photos. Incidents they’re worried about.”

“Chelsea—”

“How many?”

“I can’t discuss ongoing investigations.”

“Investigations.” I laugh, but it’s bitter. “That’s what I am now. An investigation.”

She stands, smoothing her skirt with practiced precision. “I should go.”

“Yeah. You should.”

At the door, she pauses. “For what it’s worth, I meant what I said about love being worth the chaos. Even if my job is to minimize that chaos.”

“Your job is to bury me quietly so the team can move on.”

“My job is to protect everyone involved. Including you.”

After she leaves, I double-lock the door and lean against it, shaking. The wine that tasted smooth ten minutes ago now burns like acid in my stomach. Another ally revealed as an enemy. Another person treating my life like a problem to be solved.

My phone buzzes. Reed’s messages still waiting for a response.

This time, I type without thinking.

Me: Don’t sacrifice yourself for me. I’m not worth it.

But before I can send it, another message appears:

Unknown: Dr. Clark. Time to talk. 12 hours remaining.

Unknown: Choose wisely.

I delete my message to Reed and stare at the threats from our blackmailer. Twelve hours to decide what happens next. Twelve hours to choose between protecting him and protecting myself.

Twelve hours to figure out if love really is worth the chaos it creates.

Or if sometimes, the kindest thing you can do for someone is let them save themselves.

My apartment feels colder somehow, like the walls are closing in. Outside, snow starts falling again, covering Chicago in white.

Covering everything we’ve destroyed in something clean and new.

But some stains don’t wash out, no matter how much snow falls.

And some choices can’t be undone, no matter how much you want to take them back.