Escape Route

Sienna

The glare of flashing cameras tore across my vision, fracturing the hotel conference room into harsh white light. Reporters surged forward like a ravenous pack, their voices drowning one another in an escalating roar. Microphones thrust near my chin as questions pelted me from every direction, demanding to know which former coach I had slept with to secure my contract.

My throat locked tight. Nausea surged through me, carrying the threat of tears, but I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek until copper grounded me. I refused to break in front of their lenses. I refused to grant Landon the satisfaction of watching me fall apart on broadcast television.

Spotting an opening between two camera rigs, I threw my weight against an emergency exit bar. The latch gave way with a sharp metallic clatter, and I spilled out into the freezing night air.

The heavy door slammed shut behind me. Winter chill struck my bare arms like a physical blow as I stood on the cracked asphalt of the service alley behind the Crestview Hotel, dragging cold air into my burning lungs.

The reprieve lasted only seconds.

Behind me, the emergency door crashed open against the brick wall. Footsteps pounded down the metal landing, followed by the clatter of shoes and the relentless clicking of camera shutters.

"Sienna! Give us a name! Did you trade favors for your staff credentials?"

I spun on my heels and bolted down the alley.

The pavement was slick with winter frost, and my heels skidded against the rough surface with every panicked stride. My ankles twisted, but I kept running, my vision blurring in the icy wind. Behind me, the reporters shouted as their footsteps closed the distance.

I burst out of the alley onto the city sidewalk. Streetlights cast long amber ribbons across the wet concrete, and evening traffic hummed past in an indifferent blur. I had no coat, no car, and nowhere to hide.

A sleek black sedan glided along the curb, matching my stride.

The passenger window rolled down smoothly to reveal Coach Rostov behind the wheel, his jaw rigid under the dashboard lights.

Coach Rostov barked his order across the pavement. "Get in the car right now."

The media pack spilled onto the sidewalk thirty yards behind me.

I lunged forward, yanked the door open, and scrambled into the passenger seat.

Rostov mashed the accelerator before my door had latched shut. The tires broke traction against the cold asphalt with a sharp screech, throwing me back into the seat as the sedan surged into the street. In the side mirror, the reporters shrank into the distance, their flashbulbs flaring harmlessly before we rounded the corner and left them in our exhaust.

An oppressive, suffocating silence descended over the car.

I pressed my palms flat against my knees to stop the shaking. The dashboard vents blew warm air across my bare arms, but the heat could not reach the hollow chill in my bones. For several blocks, the only sound was the low hum of the engine and the ragged rhythm of my breathing.

Rostov kept his eyes on the traffic ahead, his knuckles white against the steering wheel.

He broke the silence without glancing my way. "Was Landon telling the truth back there?"

I turned toward him, a sharp gasp catching in my chest. "No. Not a single word of it."

Rostov stared through the windshield. "Sienna."

"I said no. I have never touched an ex-coach. I have never used my body to secure a promotion, a credential, or a job. I spent four years in graduate school and six years working relentless shifts to earn my spot on this staff. Landon fabricated the entire story because I caught him cheating and threatened to expose him. I earned every inch of my career through relentless work, and I would never degrade myself like that."

My voice shook with adrenaline, but every syllable came out sharp and firm.

Rostov maintained his stone-faced posture, his expression detached. He flicked his turn signal and steered the car into the center lane.

"Beckett watched the press conference unfold in real-time," Rostov said.

The name dropped between us like lead. Beckett was the billionaire owner of the Dragons, a man who occupied the peak of the franchise hierarchy and treated the entire organization as his personal empire. In three years on the staff, I had spoken to him twice at charity galas.

My throat tightened. "He watched it?"

"All of it. The clip of Landon making the accusation has already passed two million views across social feeds. The fan forums are erupting, and sports commentators are calling it an institutional scandal. Landon is our starting center, and you are the staff member accused of compromising the team's integrity."

The number hit me with crushing weight. Two million people had watched my professional standing dragged through the gutter, reduced to cheap tabloid gossip in less than an hour.

Rostov checked his side mirror before speaking again. "Beckett has already engineered a solution to salvage the franchise brand. He does not tolerate PR disasters, and he has already decided how this will be handled. I am merely the one delivering the message."

A cold knot of dread formed in my stomach. "Salvage it how?"

Rostov waited through a yellow light before answering. "You are going to date Declan Brooks."

I stared at his profile, certain I had misheard him.

Rostov continued in a flat, clinical tone. "A public, strictly managed arrangement lasting several months. It will hold the media's attention until the regular season begins and Declan's performance shifts the narrative. We will hold a joint press conference in the morning to announce the relationship."

A bitter, incredulous laugh broke from my throat before I could stop it.

I shook my head, staring at him in disbelief. "Are you insane? My reputation was incinerated on live television thirty minutes ago, and your solution is to shove me into the spotlight with an arrogant stranger I have never exchanged three words with?"

Rostov cut across my protest without raising his voice. "The alternative is that your contract will be reviewed and terminated by tomorrow morning. Those are Beckett's direct words. The franchise will not allow you to remain a toxic distraction while we launch a championship run."

The brutal finality of his words knocked the remaining wind from my chest.

I looked at him, feeling the floor drop beneath me. "He is threatening to fire me?"

Rostov kept his eyes on the street ahead. "He is protecting an investment. Landon is a premier asset, and Declan Brooks is the fifty-million-dollar face of our future. You are a physio caught in a public relations catastrophe. Beckett protects the brand before anything else."

I turned my face toward the side window, watching the blurred reflection of streetlights. The unfairness burned through me like acid. I had sacrificed holidays, weekends, and relationships to build a clean professional standing. Yet within an hour, Landon's lies had wiped all of it away, and the franchise was ready to crush me to protect their bottom line.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay level. "Why would Declan Brooks agree to this farce? He just signed the largest contract in franchise history. Why would a superstar agree to fake-date a disgraced physio at the center of a scandal?"

Rostov gave no explanation.

He drove the remainder of the route in chilling silence, navigating the streets without another word. Five minutes later, he pulled the sedan smoothly to the curb directly outside my brick apartment building.

A cold shiver crept down my neck. I had never told Rostov where I lived. He had driven straight here without checking a map or asking for an address. It was a terrifying reminder of how thoroughly the franchise monitored my life, tracking every detail while treating my dignity as expendable.

Rostov put the car in park and unlocked the doors. "Press conference is at ten tomorrow morning. Make the right decision, Sienna."

I pushed the door open without offering a reply and stepped onto the frosty sidewalk.

The sedan accelerated away immediately, its red taillights vanishing down the block before I had even reached the glass front entrance.

The lobby was warm and smelled of radiator steam, but the chill inside my chest refused to fade.

I bypassed the elevator and took the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. The physical strain burned my calves, grounding my racing thoughts. With every step, Landon's smug expression flashed behind my eyes. He had calculated the ambush to destroy my credibility, knowing the league would always protect an elite player over a female staffer. And now Beckett wanted to force me into a circus with Declan Brooks just to cover the team's exposure.

I reached the third-floor landing and pushed through the heavy fire door into the carpeted hallway.

Digging into my purse, I pulled out my keys and walked toward my apartment down the quiet corridor.

I froze dead in my tracks.

Declan Brooks was leaning against the wall directly outside my door.

He wore a dark leather jacket over an unbuttoned dress shirt, his long legs crossed casually at the ankles and his hands resting in his pockets. He was not checking his phone, and he showed no sign of impatience. He simply stood there in the dim corridor, looking as comfortable as if waiting outside a stranger's apartment near midnight was a routine part of his evening.

As my footsteps halted, Declan lifted his chin and looked at me.

His dark, impenetrable eyes scanned my face, taking in the smudged mascara beneath my lower lashes, my tangled hair, and the trembling key ring clutched in my fist. There was no pity in his expression, no hint of awkwardness, and no surprise at my ruined state. He surveyed the wreckage of my evening with detached, unhurried calm.

Declan pushed off the wall and straightened to his full height.

In the narrow confines of the corridor, his frame seemed immense. He towered over me, his broad shoulders blocking the dim light from the overhead sconce and filling the quiet space between us with an intense, suffocating gravity.

He tilted his head slightly, holding my gaze without blinking.

Declan broke the silence in a low, effortless drawl. "So. Sisi. Are we doing this or not?"

My fingers tightened around the brass keys until the edges bit deep into my palm.

My chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, my pulse hammering in my ears as the reality of my predicament stared down at me. Everything I had worked for hung by a single thread, and the arrogant superstar holding the other end stood inches from my doorstep, waiting for an answer.