Goodbye, my hockey MVP

The velvet box felt heavy against my ribs, tucked securely inside my clutch.

I cut the post-game media scrum twenty minutes short, handed my broadcast notes to my assistant, and hailed a cab straight to the downtown high-rise. I didn't even change out of the scarlet dress Justin always swore was his favorite color on me.

Tonight, Justin Mercer had finally claimed his first league MVP trophy. And after six years of waiting on empty promises, I had made up my mind: if he wasn't going to get down on one knee tonight, I would do it myself.

I typed the security code into his penthouse door. The lock chimed softly.

"Justin?" I called out, pushing the heavy walnut door open. "You beat me back?"

Silence answered.

The foyer lights were dim, but the faint glow from the master suite spilled onto the hardwood. On the floor lay his tailored gray suit jacket—the exact one he wore on the podium two hours ago, still pinned with the silver league crest. Next to it was his tie, yanked loose and discarded like trash.

A knot formed in my stomach.

I walked toward the bedroom, my fingers brushing against the frame of the door before pushing it inward.

"Justin, did you pass out already—"

The sentence died in my throat.

The king-sized mattress—the one we spent three weekends testing in SoHo before picking it out together—was a wreck of tangled sheets. Justin lay on his side, his broad, athletic back bare. Curled against his chest, her dark hair splayed across my side of the bed, was Sienna Holt.

The team owner’s twenty-four-year-old daughter.

Right on the nightstand above them, glowing under the bedside lamp, was the crystal-framed photo I had customized for him after his first conference title.

I didn't scream. The air simply vanished from my lungs.

Justin shifted, blinking against the corridor light. His eyes tracked my silhouette, and all the color drained from his face.

"Barbie?"

He bolted upright, scrambling for the edge of the mattress. Sienna groaned softly, rolling over with a sleepy, satisfied stretch.

I backed up into the hallway.

"Barbie, wait!" Justin lunged out of bed, grabbing a pair of training shorts off the floor and yanking them on as he stumbled after me into the living room. "Wait a second. Stop walking."

I turned around by the kitchen island, staring at him. My hands stayed steady at my sides, though the blood roared in my ears.

"Six years, Justin," I said quietly.

He reached out, his fingers catching my wrist with an iron grip. "Barbie, don't do this. Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're interrogating me for a front-page scandal," he snapped, his voice sharp with defensiveness. "I had too much champagne at the owner’s suite. Everyone was pushing drinks on me. I just had too much to drink, alright?"

I stared at his hand on my skin until he let go. "Too much to drink? So she magically found her way into our bed?"

"She offered me a ride back so I wouldn't get swarmed by paparazzi," he said, pacing two steps, running a hand roughly through his short hair. "One thing led to another. It wasn't planned. You weren't answering your phone!"

"I was running the live post-game broadcast for your victory!" My voice cracked, sharp and piercing. "I wrapped early to come here. For you."

"And I appreciate that, but you're blowing this out of proportion—"

"Blowing it out of proportion?" A humorless sound tore out of me. "You brought another woman into the bed I bought with you on the night of your greatest career milestone."

"It doesn't mean anything!" Justin stepped closer, his jaw tightening. "You know how much pressure I was under this season. Tonight was about blowing off steam. Why do you always have to turn every single thing into a trial?"

"Because you're guilty, Justin."

A soft, mocking chuckle drifted from the hallway.

We both turned.

Sienna was leaning against the doorframe, clad in Justin’s oversized home jersey—the black and gold number seven. She didn't look flustered or ashamed. She crossed her arms, tilting her head with a lazy smirk.

"You really need to lower your voice, Barbie," Sienna purred. "Some people are trying to sleep off an incredible night."

"Get out of here, Sienna," Justin warned, shooting her a nervous glance. "Go back inside."

"Why should I?" Sienna took two leisurely steps into the living room, her eyes raking over my red dress with sheer amusement. "She’s going to find out sooner or later. Did you really think a man who just won MVP would be in a rush to get married to his college girlfriend?"

The words landed like a slap, but I didn't flinch.

Sienna walked right up to Justin, placing a manicured hand flat against his chest. He didn't pull away. He just stood there, caught between guilt and arrogance.

"A superstar needs a partner who elevates him, Barbie," Sienna said smoothly, flashing her white teeth. "Not a beat reporter who tracks his curfew and begs for a diamond ring every anniversary. Face reality. His world just got a whole lot bigger than you."

I looked at Sienna, and then I looked at Justin.

I looked at the man I had stayed up with until three in the morning after his ACL tear. The man whose press releases I secretly proofread. The man I had begged, pleaded, and waited on for six long years to give me a simple promise of forever.

He didn't defend me. He didn't tell Sienna to take off his jersey. He just stood there, breathing heavily, annoyed that his coronation night had hit a snag.

Something inside my chest snapped clean in half.

And then, I laughed.

Justin stared at me, bewildered. "What's funny?"

"You," I said, the smile settling firmly on my face. "Both of you."

I reached into my clutch. Justin flinched slightly, perhaps expecting a weapon or a scene. Instead, I pulled out the brass key to the penthouse.

I placed it flat against the cold marble countertop with a sharp click.

"Keep it," I said. "Keep the bed. Keep the view. Keep each other."

"Barbie, stop being dramatic," Justin growled, grabbing my arm again as I turned toward the foyer. "You're angry. Fine. We'll talk about this tomorrow after the parade. Don't walk out like this."

I yanked my arm out of his grasp so violently he stumbled back half a step.

"Don't touch me again," I whispered. My voice was colder than ice, devoid of the tears he expected. "We're done, Justin."

Inside my bag, my fingers brushed against the small velvet box containing the platinum band I had bought with my own bonus check three days ago. I didn't throw it at him. I didn't smash it on the floor. He didn't deserve the drama of a shattered gesture.

I walked out the front door, letting it slam shut behind me.

The corridor was empty. I walked straight to the elevator bank, pressed the down button, and waited. My hands were perfectly steady. The numbness had already settled into my veins, sharp and clarifying.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

As I stepped inside and the mirrored walls surrounded me, my phone buzzed in my palm. Justin’s name flashed across the screen once, then twice.

I ignored the calls. Instead, I unlocked the screen, opened our chat thread, and typed out one final message.

*Congratulations, MVP. See you tomorrow, Justin—strictly as reporter and subject.*

I hit send just as the doors slid shut, sealing the shaft in steel.

Tomorrow at ten in the morning, the franchise was hosting his official MVP press conference, broadcast live on every major national sports network.

And I was the lead correspondent holding the microphone.