My Boyfriend Cheated in Front of My Brother's Rival

I earned my Seattle Comets job two years before my little brother ever wore an NHL jersey.

Once Mason became the league's favorite rookie, people still called me the sister who got lucky.

Evan was the one person who swore he saw Riley Brooks, not Mason's access pass.

I trusted him enough to let him review my private campaign drafts after midnight.

At a league charity launch, I watched influencer Sloane Hart present my unpublished winter tagline as if it were hers.

Evan kissed my temple and told me I was imagining things.

An hour later, I found his mouth on hers behind the media lounge.

When I demanded my files back, he grabbed my credential and told me nobody would believe I created anything without my brother.

Vancouver captain Declan Vale stepped between us just before the cameras arrived.

Then I heard Evan and Sloane arguing behind the service door.

"Relax. She'll blame me, not you."

"You're sure she won't expose the deck if she finds out?"

"She can't. Half those sponsor ideas came from her team account."

"She won't risk Mason's rookie season to save her own name."

***

"Cold Front. Hot Hands."

The tagline glared off the main stage monitor, ten feet high and undeniably stolen.

I stopped adjusting the livestream audio feed and stared at the stage. Sloane Hart, a hockey lifestyle creator, paced under the spotlights. She was currently pitching my private winter campaign draft to the league sponsors, presenting every detail as her own fresh concept.

"Did you open my cloud folder?" I asked, turning to Evan.

My boyfriend of three years lowered his camera, the heavy lens thumping against his chest. "What?"

"The glove tap challenge," I pointed at the screen. "That’s my exact storyboard. Did you show her my portfolio?"

He wiped a thumb across my forehead, brushing away a stray hair. "Coincidences happen in marketing all the time, Ry."

"She used my exact phrasing. She even pitched the fan-voting mechanic I sketched out on Tuesday."

"Are you sure you aren't just sensitive right now?" Evan adjusted his camera strap, his tone painfully condescending. "Mason has been taking a beating from Declan Vale on the ice lately. You're projecting your brother's stress onto a basic PR pitch."

I stared at him. For three years, Evan had been the one telling me I didn't need my brother's name to succeed. He knew I earned my spot in the Comets' front office two years before Mason even got drafted. Now, he was using my brother's rookie struggles to gaslight me.

"That is my work," I said, keeping my voice low.

"Don't cause a scene," Evan muttered, lifting his camera to snap another photo of Sloane. "I need to get these sponsor shots."

An hour later, the charity event transitioned into a cocktail mixer.

"You riding back with us later?" Mason asked, leaning against the player's lounge barricade. My younger brother looked exhausted, a fresh purple bruise shadowing his jawline.

"Go ahead without me," I told him, forcing a smile. "Evan's just swamped with sponsor photos. I don't want to drag you into our schedule."

"You sure? You look pale."

"I'm fine. Go ice that jaw."

Mason nodded and vanished into the crowd. I checked my phone. Two rejected calls to Evan. Every time Sloane vanished from the media pit, Evan's camera was nowhere to be found.

I needed my backup drive for the B-roll footage. I turned and marched toward the media lounge.

A solid wall of muscle in a custom navy suit blocked the narrow corridor.

Declan Vale. Vancouver Breakers captain.

He held a plastic cup of water, looking down at the two heavy credentials swinging from my neck. This was the guy who hammered Mason into the boards on opening night, then mocked him to the press for losing his temper.

"Is Seattle letting the Brooks family run the entire charity event now?" Declan drawled, his voice rough and amused.

I tightened my grip on my camera rig. "At least we know when to shut our mics off."

Declan chuckled, stepping aside just enough to let me pass. "Careful in there. The media vultures are circling."

I ignored him and kept walking.

The side door to the media lounge sat cracked open.

Sloane’s high-pitched laugh leaked into the hallway. "You should have showed me her clever little drafts weeks ago, Ev. The sponsors loved it."

I pushed the door wide.

Evan’s hand rested flat against the bare skin of Sloane’s lower back. They jumped apart, but the space between them screamed the truth.

"How long?" I asked.

Evan dropped his hand to his side. "Don't do this here, Riley."

"How long have you been sleeping with her?"

"You’ve spent the last six months obsessed with Mason’s rookie season," Evan snapped, his jaw tight. "Any normal guy would get sick of coming in second to a hockey player. You never have time for us."

Sloane reached for the silver USB drive resting on the table. My backup drive. The one holding my entire portfolio, the one I trusted Evan to organize.

"Leave it," I demanded, stepping forward.

Sloane snatched the metal casing.

I reached for her wrist, but Evan caught the lanyard around my neck. He yanked downward, pulling me off balance. The rough nylon burned the back of my neck.

"Without Mason," Evan hissed, stepping into my space, "you wouldn't even have the clearance to walk into this room. Stop acting like you own the place."

"Take your hands off her."

The low, gravelly voice cut through the room. Declan stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame. He tossed his plastic cup into a nearby bin.

Evan sneered, releasing my lanyard to shove Declan’s chest. "Stick to the ice, Vale. All you know how to do is throw punches for the camera."

Declan didn't flinch. He shoved Evan back. Hard.

Evan slammed into the drywall. Before he could recover, Declan’s fist connected with his jaw. The sharp crack echoed off the acoustic panels. Evan crumpled to the floor, holding his face.

Three smartphones appeared in the doorway, red recording lights blinking.

Ten minutes later, Jenna Ortiz, the league PR director, locked the small conference room door behind us. Security stood outside in the hall.

"The ten-second clip is already everywhere," Jenna said, rubbing her temples. She tossed her tablet onto the table. "Breakers captain attacks Comets staffer's boyfriend. Do you have any idea what a nightmare this is?"

Evan leaned close to my ear while Jenna typed furiously on her phone.

"Drop the issue with the drive and Sloane," Evan whispered, dabbing blood from his split lip with a tissue. "Do that, and I'll tell the press I swung at Declan first. I'll even say Sloane was just a drunken mistake. We can fix this."

I stared at the man I had trusted for three years. He thought I was weak. He thought I would fold to protect my job.

"Jenna," I called out, my voice perfectly steady.

I unclipped the B-roll camera from my belt and slid it across the glass table.

"Check the timestamps," I said. "It was rolling the entire time."

Evan's face drained of color. "Riley, don't."

Jenna picked up the camera, flipping open the side screen. The raw footage played loudly in the quiet room. Evan yanking my credential. Declan warning him twice. Evan shoving Declan first. The truth, completely unedited.

Jenna sighed heavily, pausing the video. "This proves provocation, but Vale still threw the punch. Mandatory image rehab starts tomorrow. We can't avoid that."

I grabbed my coat from the chair and left the room.

The hallway was empty, save for two voices echoing from the service stairwell. I stopped walking.

"Are you crazy?" Sloane hissed, her shadow stretching across the floor. "She's going to ruin us. She has the original files."

"Relax," Evan replied, his voice muffled. "She won't risk dragging Mason's rookie season into a media circus just to save her own name. She always protects her brother first."

My thumb hovered over my phone screen. I opened my cloud management app, selected the shared access logs, and tapped export.

The progress bar hit one hundred percent, locking my evidence into a secure file.