Chapter 3 Damage control

The alarm went off like it had a personal grudge.

Rey groaned, half-buried under tangled sheets and the sticky weight of a night that ended way too late. The sun hadn't even bothered to show up yet, and her phone screen glared 5:12 A.M. in harsh white letters like it was proud of ruining her sleep.

"Babe," a sleepy voice murmured beside her, warm breath on her shoulder. "Turn that off, please..."

Rey twisted to glance at the girl curled up next to her-a blur of soft curls, lip gloss smudges, and way too much glitter on one eyelid. She couldn't remember her name. Probably started with an S. Or an L. Something breathy and Instagram-famous.

Rey reached over and silenced the alarm. "Go back to sleep," she said, not unkindly, but final.

The girl blinked up at her, pout already forming. "You leaving?"

"Yeah. PR."

"Mmm, you're such a good girl," the girl teased, eyes closing again as she tucked the blanket under her chin. "Come back after?"

Rey didn't answer. She was already out of bed, searching the floor for her hoodie and left skate sock, stepping over yesterday's jeans and an empty Red Bull can like it was an obstacle course. Her bra was somehow hanging from the doorknob. Classic.

She tugged her hoodie on backward the first time. Fixed it. Brushed her teeth with one hand while lacing up her sneakers with the other. Her hair was chaos and she let it be-curly and big and screaming don't talk to me before caffeine. The bathroom mirror judged her. She winked at it.

In the kitchen, she chugged what was left of a lukewarm protein shake from last night, grabbed her stick, her gear bag, and her keys in one swipe, and was out the door by 5:29.

The early morning air slapped her in the face-cold and fresh like it was trying to do her a favor. She welcomed it.

Ivy hates the studio lighting. It's clinical. Sterile. The kind of bright that makes you feel like you're about to be dissected instead of interviewed.

She shifts in her seat, spine stiff against the fake leather couch, makeup setting in the creases of her jaw. Her palms are sweating. Her chest is tight.

Across from her, Rey Navarro looks like she hasn't blinked in ten minutes.

The set is fake-casual, meant to look like a cozy living room-framed jerseys on the wall, puck-themed throw pillows, a pair of signed sticks leaned artistically against the backdrop. Ivy knows the props were chosen to signal unity. Strength. Sisterhood.

Bullshit.

The producer is circling like a hawk, headset crooked, clipboard in hand. "We go live in four," she says. "Remember the talking points. Stick to the script."

Ivy nods, even though her stomach is flipping. She can feel Rey's eyes on her, sharp and unreadable.

This is the first time they've been in the same room since that phone call. The first time they've seen each other since Ivy's suspension, since the video, since the firestorm.

And the tension?

It's choking.

Rey's legs are crossed tight, fingers drumming against her knee. She's not wearing her jersey. Neither of them are. It's soft civilian mode-denim, minimalist sneakers, logos strategically invisible. Rey's hair is pulled back, clean undercut sharp as a blade. Her jaw ticks.

Ivy doesn't know whether she wants to punch her or apologize again.

Probably both.

A makeup assistant dabs under Rey's eyes. Rey flinches like she's been struck. Ivy watches her inhale, slow and measured, then nod stiffly. The assistant retreats.

"Two minutes," the producer calls. "Smile when we intro. Don't overcorrect. We want honest, not defensive. Got it?"

Neither of them respond.

Rey's arms are crossed now. Closed off. Ivy feels her own body mimic the posture.

This was a mistake.

They're live before Ivy's ready.

The host is a polished former player turned media darling. Her smile is bright enough to fry an egg, but Ivy sees the edge behind it. This isn't just damage control-it's theatre.

"Today," the host says, "we're joined by two of the league's most talked-about stars-Rey Navarro and Ivy Ransom. Teammates off the ice, rivals on it, and now... unlikely allies in the wake of a very public controversy."

Rey's mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something tighter.

Ivy swallows.

The first few questions are scripted softballs.

What's it been like navigating the fallout?

How do you plan to move forward as leaders in the sport?

What message do you want to send to young fans watching?

Ivy answers like she was trained to-concise, composed, with just enough vulnerability to sound real.

Rey? Rey's answers are clipped. Honest. There's a simmer under each word, like she's daring the host to push too far.

And then-

"Ivy," the host says, tilting slightly, "a lot of fans feel betrayed. They looked up to you. What do you say to those who think you knew what was happening and stayed silent to protect your image?"

Rey shifts beside her. The tension sparks like a live wire.

Ivy keeps her face neutral. Breathes through her nose.

"I think," she says slowly, "those fans are right to feel hurt. I didn't do enough. I didn't listen closely enough. I saw things and chose not to question them, and that's on me."

She feels Rey's eyes flick toward her. Watches her from the corner of her vision.

"I can't undo that," Ivy continues. "But I can be better. I will be better."

The host turns to Rey. "And you-Rey, you called Ivy out publicly. Some have called you brave. Others, divisive. What would you say to people who think you escalated the situation instead of resolving it behind closed doors?"

Rey smiles. It's not sweet.

"I say that's a convenient opinion if you've never been the one left behind. If you've never had to pick between silence and survival."

Ivy's throat tightens.

Rey continues, voice steady. "I didn't escalate anything. I told the truth. And if that makes people uncomfortable, they should ask themselves why."

The host looks like she just got hit with a slapshot.

The producer gestures frantically off-camera.

"We'll be right back," the host says, smile a little cracked now. "Stay with us for more from Ivy and Rey, after the break."

The second the lights dim, Ivy exhales like she's been holding her breath for days.

Rey stands. Paces. Her hands are shaking.

"That felt great," she mutters. "Like a nice slow evisceration."

Ivy stands too, not sure if she wants to follow or flee. "You could've gone harder."

Rey glances over her shoulder. "Don't tempt me."

They lock eyes.

For a second, it's just them. No cameras. No script.

"You're still pissed," Ivy says.

Rey lifts a brow. "You expected otherwise?"

"No. I just-" Ivy hesitates. "You didn't have to be here."

Rey laughs. It's hollow. "Trust me, I really didn't."

"Then why'd you show?"

Rey looks at her. Really looks.

"Because I meant what I said. And because Liza deserves better than a league that treats her like a PR inconvenience. This?" She gestures at the set. "This isn't for you. It's not even for me. It's for every girl who's been told to shut up and skate."

Ivy feels something twist in her chest.

Before she can respond, they're being ushered back to the couch.

Segment two.

This time, the host tries to lighten the mood.

Let's play a game, she says. Rapid fire questions. Show us the real Ivy and Rey.

Rey visibly recoils. Ivy wants to groan.

But the cameras are rolling, and the game begins.

"Who's most likely to win a fight?"

They both say "Rey" at the same time.

"Who's messier off the ice?"

Ivy raises a hand. "Guilty."

"Who has better style?"

They both say "Me."

That earns a laugh. The first real one.

"Who made the first move?"

Silence.

The host grins, sensing blood. "Oh, is there a story there?"

Rey shoots Ivy a sideways look. Ivy stiffens.

"No story," she says quickly.

Rey just smirks. "You sure about that?"

Ivy glares.

The host raises an eyebrow but moves on.

"Who would survive a zombie apocalypse?"

"Me," they both say again. Rey adds, "Ivy would try to negotiate."

"I would not-"

"You'd try to reason with them. 'I understand your hunger, but have you considered therapy?'"

Ivy snorts. A laugh escapes before she can swallow it.

Rey grins.

The camera catches it. The producer's eyes go wide.

There's a beat-small, electric-where something shifts.

Then it's over.

The lights dim. The segment ends.

The host wraps with a practiced smile. "Thank you, Ivy and Rey. That was... illuminating."

They're led off-set, still in silence.

In the hallway outside the studio, Rey turns to Ivy. "Well. That wasn't a complete disaster."

Ivy rubs the back of her neck. "Could've been worse."

"You mean like the part where we almost admitted we've hooked up?"

"That wasn't what she meant."

Rey leans in, close enough for Ivy to smell her cologne-leather and something sharp. "Wasn't it?"

Ivy's breath catches.

She steps back. Clears her throat. "This is professional. Remember?"

Rey tilts her head. "Sure. Totally professional."

Her voice is teasing, but there's something raw underneath it. Something real.

Ivy looks away.

"I meant what I said in there," Rey says quietly. "About being better."

"I know."

"And about calling you out."

"I know that too."

Rey hesitates. "You still mad?"

Ivy meets her eyes. "Yeah. But not just at you."

Rey nods. "Same."

They stand there, staring at each other.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, Ivy feels like maybe-just maybe-they're standing on something that could hold their weight.

The tension hasn't gone. But now it feels like something else is under it.

Possibility.