Page 33

We move around the kitchen in that same easy synchronicity, setting the table, feeding Gordie, and preparing breakfast together like we've done a hundred times before.

I can't remember the last time I felt this comfortable with someone—certainly never with Adam, who always maintained a certain careful distance even at his most affectionate.

Over breakfast, we talk about nothing important—Gunnar and Emerson's wedding, whether anyone noticed our early departure, what we might do with the rest of our Sunday.

We carefully avoid labeling whatever this is between us, though the "summer fling" designation feels increasingly inadequate for the warmth spreading through my chest whenever Lena laughs.

Gordie eventually joins us at the table, sitting hopefully at Lena's feet. She slips him a tiny piece of plain egg, earning a disapproving look from me.

"What? He gave me the eyes," she defends. "I'm only human."

"He's a master manipulator," I tell her seriously. "Don't fall for it."

"Too late," she says, smiling down at my dog with such affection that my heart constricts.

The doorbell rings, disrupting the moment. I glance at the clock—barely past ten on a Sunday morning. Who the hell is visiting now?

"I'll get it," I sigh, pushing back from the table.

When I open the door, Brian stands on my doorstep, impeccably dressed despite the hour, a tablet in one hand and coffee in the other. His expression is grim.

"Morning," I say warily. "What brings you here at the crack of dawn on a Sunday?"

"We have a situation." He walks past me without waiting for an invitation, his usual composure noticeably rattled. He stops abruptly when he sees Lena in my clothes at the table, her hair still damp from our shower.

"Dr. Sinclair," he says after a beat, his professional mask sliding into place. "Actually, this concerns you, too. "

Lena and I exchange confused glances as Brian places his tablet on the kitchen counter and opens a website.

"Adam's been busy." He turns the screen toward us, revealing a sports blog with the headline: "Fury Defenseman's Bisexual 'Phase' Over? Sources Close to Ex Suggest Identity Was Career Move."

My stomach drops as I scan the article, which quotes an "anonymous source familiar with the relationship," claiming my bisexuality was "always more about image than identity" and suggesting I was "ready to return to a conventional lifestyle now that I've gotten the publicity I wanted."

"There's more." Brian swipes to another site, this one featuring screenshots from social media.

LGBTQ hockey fans express disappointment, questioning whether I was ever really part of their community.

One post from a popular queer hockey account reads: "Tough to see @AlderStag abandon the community that supported him, proving bisexuality stereotypes right. #JustAPhase"

"What the hell?" I grip the counter, anger rising. "This is?—"

"Adam's work," Brian finishes for me. "His fingerprints are all over it. Not sure what you did to piss him off, but it’s become a liability."

Lena has moved next to me, reading over my shoulder. Her face is flushed with indignation. "This is disgusting. How can he weaponize someone's identity like this?"

"Because he's a professional manipulator who knows exactly which buttons to push." Brian takes a sip of his coffee. "And because you two gave him the ammunition."

"It’s just been petty prank shit," I protest, though the memory of holding Lena's hand, of the deliberately public display, undermines my argument.

"And now Adam's making sure everyone sees it as you rejecting your queer identity.

" Brian pulls up another article. "The bi-erasure narrative is getting traction.

This morning, his firm released a statement about 'supporting authentic representation in sports' that's basically a thinly veiled shot at you. "

I sink into a chair, the weight of this attack hitting me fully. It's one thing to be humiliated publicly by Adam's cheating, but to have my identity questioned, to be painted as someone who used the LGBTQ community for publicity—that cuts deeper than I would have expected.

"How do we respond?" Lena asks, her hand finding my shoulder, a gesture of support that would feel comforting if it weren't also part of what Adam is using against me.

"Carefully." Brian sets down his tablet. "Adam's strategy is obvious. He's redirecting the narrative, making himself the wounded party defending the community against your 'opportunism.' It's classic deflection."

"But it's complete bullshit," I say, my voice rising. "Being with Lena doesn't make me less bisexual. That's the whole point of bisexuality!"

Brian sighs. "I know that. You know that. Most reasonable people know that.” A rare empathetic expression crosses his face. “But Adam is humiliated, and he doesn’t deal in mailed dick pasta or singing telegrams. He's manipulating legitimate issues in the queer community to attack you personally."

I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. "So, what's the play?"

"First, we need to be strategic about your public appearances." Brian glances meaningfully between Lena and me. "The Black and Gold Charity Gala is in two weeks. Adam's firm is handling the PR, which means he'll be there, working the room, watching for any opportunity to reinforce his narrative."

"You want me to what—pretend I'm not with Lena?" The words come out before I fully process them, and I feel her stiffen beside me.

"We're not together, Alder," she says quietly. Her words slice at my soul .

Brian watches this exchange with shrewd eyes.

"What you do privately is your business.

However, professionally, you need to maintain appropriate boundaries at public events like the gala, where the entire organization will be present.

Not just because of the fraternization policy, but because Adam is actively weaponizing your relationship—or whatever this is—against both of you. "

Lena nods slowly. "He's right. I can't afford to lose my job, and you can't afford to be demonized like this.."

"So, we just let him win?" I ask, hating how defeated I sound.

"No," Brian says firmly. "We respond on our terms. I've already contacted Out Sports about an interview where you can address these accusations directly.

We highlight your continued commitment to LGBTQ advocacy while emphasizing that bisexuality isn't a phase and doesn't disappear when you date someone of any gender. "

He turns to Lena. "And Dr. Sinclair, I'm afraid this puts you in an awkward position. Any public association with Alder right now will be twisted to fuel this narrative."

I watch her face as she processes this, the professional mask I've come to recognize sliding into place. "I understand," she says. "I've been meaning to look more seriously for my own apartment anyway. This seems like the right time to prioritize that."

Her words hit me like a body check, even though I should have expected them. "You don't have to leave immediately," I say quickly. "The apartment hunt was going terribly, remember?"

"I know, but I need to make it a priority. Not just half-heartedly looking at listings." She sighs. "I need this job, Alder. I can't risk losing it because of this situation."

Brian watches our exchange with sympathy, which surprises me. "For what it's worth, I'd be happy for you two in another timeline. But right now, we need to be strategic. "

"I'll send you the Out Sports questions later today," he continues, standing to leave. "And Alder—no more public appearances with Dr. Sinclair until we get this under control. Adam's looking for any angle to undermine you."

After Brian leaves, Lena and I sit in painful silence. Gordie whines from his bed, sensing the tension.

"I'm sorry," I finally say. "I didn't think Adam would go this far."

"It's not your fault," she replies, moving to check on Gordie. "He's playing dirty. That's on him, not you."

As I watch her gently care for my dog, her hands sure despite our difficult conversation, I'm struck by how quickly she's become essential to my life. The thought of her leaving—of going back to being just colleagues who nod politely in hallways—is like a physical ache.

"I'll help you look for apartments," I offer, moving to join her beside Gordie, who licks my hand. "Maybe there's something in this neighborhood that would work for your budget."

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Thank you. That would be helpful."

We sit silently for a moment, both petting Gordie, our hands occasionally brushing. Each touch feels precious now, knowing they're numbered.

"This doesn't change anything about how I feel," I say quietly. "About last night. About you."

She meets my eyes, vulnerability and regret mingling in her expression. "I know. But sometimes feelings aren't enough, are they?"

I don't have an answer for that because she's right. In the real world—our world of professional sports, public scrutiny, and manipulative exes—sometimes what we want takes a backseat to what's necessary.

Our hands touch again as we both stroke Gordie's fur, and neither of us pulls away. It's a small rebellion, but it's all we have right now.