Page 97 of Cross Ice

“One change,” I said. “Second sentence. ‘Personal life’ not ‘private life.’ Private sounds like I’m hiding. Personal sounds like a boundary.”

She typed. “Done. Good catch.”

She walked through the media protocol—what the team would and wouldn’t field on my behalf, how interview requests would be handled, deflection language for teammates who got approached. I took notes. Asked questions. Got answers.

Then she shifted in her chair, like she was about to say something delicate.

“One more item. Evan Beckett. If he’s receiving media contact—and based on what we’re seeing online, he is—his communication strategy matters. We can help coordinate if he wants support.”

“I’ll talk to him about it.” I didn’t think he would go for it.

After the meeting ended, I sat in my car for a moment.

The plan was working. Neil had it. Rachel had it. The statement was clean. The locker room was fine. VortexStride hurt, but it was survivable. I had a framework, a timeline, and people handling the pieces I couldn’t handle myself.

This was the part I knew how to do—contain it, manage it, execute.

The part I didn’t know how to do was Evan.

He had no framework. No Rachel, no Neil, no locker room full of teammates treating him like he was fine. He had a business he’d built from scratch that was taking collateral damage. He had a life designed around privacy that was now public property with his name, his headshot, his history with Ryan… all of it circulating without his consent. I could see him receiving my action-mode as distance, like I was managing the situation instead of being in it with him.

I didn’t have a play for this.

I stopped at the grocery store on the way to his apartment. Sandwich makings, fruit, and the sparkling water he liked. I couldn’t fix the rest of it, but I could do this.

When I got to his apartment, he’d showered and changed. His laptop was open on his desk. He’d been trying to work.

I unpacked the groceries without making a thing of it.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said over my shoulder.

“No trouble.”

I made sandwiches, and we sat at his table with the afternoon light coming in through the window. I told him about the meeting and the statement, the timeline, and Rachel’s offer to coordinate his media strategy.

He listened the way he always did. Careful. Processing.

“She’s right,” he said finally. “The statement won’t stop the coverage. It just gives them something official to quote while they keep digging.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been thinking about search results. My professional headshot is circulating—I’ve already taken it down, but the cached versions are everywhere.” He ran a finger through the condensation on his water glass. “There are things I can do to push the coverage down over time. It’ll take a few months, but I know how to do it.”

I looked at him. This was the Evan who’d built something from nothing after Ryan. Practical, forward moving, thinking three steps ahead even when he was scared. “That makes sense.”

Evan nodded.

“About Wesley,” I said. “His offer to help still stands.”

Evan sipped his water. “I know.”

“He’s good at this. He’s been through it.”

“I know that too.” He set the glass down. “I just need to handle this my way.” He said it without heat. Like it was already decided.

I let it go. Pushing wouldn’t get me anywhere, and I could see the logic well enough, even if the logic was also a way of not having to depend on anyone from my world to solve a problem my world had caused him.

I mentioned the game tonight. Kept my voice even.