After My Hockey Star Cheated, I Married His Rival

The video buffered, then cleared. Two figures tangled on the king-sized bed. Liam's unmistakable laugh echoed through the tiny speaker, followed by Sophia's high-pitched giggle.

I didn’t throw the phone. I didn’t scream.

A sharp, dry laugh escaped my throat.

Ten years of friendship. Three years of building Liam’s career from the ground up. All of it reduced to a pixelated livestream.

I tapped the screen, ending the broadcast. The silence of my bedroom rushed back in.

I scrolled past Liam’s contact, past the emergency PR numbers, and stopped at a name I had blocked two years ago. Adrian Blake. The head of North America’s most ruthless hockey agency. Liam’s biggest rival. The man Liam feared more than a career-ending injury.

I unblocked the number. I pressed dial.

The line rang once. Twice.

"Evelyn Carter," a deep baritone answered. "You finally decided to contact me."

"Fifty million dollars."

A low chuckle vibrated through the receiver. "Straight to the point. Are you asking for a handout, Evelyn? Or are you buying something? Because if it's just money—"

"Of course not."

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. The city sprawled below, a grid of yellow and white lights cutting through the dark. The glass felt ice-cold against my forehead.

"Then what is this?" Adrian asked. His tone shifted, the amusement replaced by a sharp edge.

"A hostile takeover of my own life." I traced a fingertip over the glass. "You probably don't know who my father is."

The line went dead silent.

"Carter Media Group," I continued, keeping my voice entirely flat. "The largest entertainment news conglomerate in the country. Heard of it?"

A sharp exhale came through the speaker. Adrian didn't speak immediately.

"Everyone has heard of Carter Media," Adrian stated. "What does a media empire have to do with a sports agent?"

"I'm the sole heir."

"You're lying." The accusation cracked like a whip. "If you were the heir to Carter Media, you wouldn't be running around fetching water bottles and begging for minor endorsements for a second-rate winger."

"He wasn't second-rate when I finished with him," I snapped, my fingers tightening around the phone. "I made Liam. I took a nobody and shoved him into the spotlight. I fought my father for the right to do it. I walked away from the boardrooms and cut ties with my family to prove I could build a star from scratch."

"And you chose a fragile ego with a good slapshot."

"A mistake I am currently rectifying." I pulled away from the window, pacing the length of the rug. "I refuse to let my father know I left the family for a man, only to end up with a piece of trash."

"So you want to hide the breakup?"

"No." I stopped pacing. "I want to erase him. Help me. Let me destroy him with my own hands."

"Destroying a franchise player takes more than a bad news cycle, Evelyn."

"I know exactly what it takes. I built his foundation. I know where every crack is."

"Give me one good reason why I should trust a woman who spent three years protecting the man she now wants to ruin."

"Because I wrote his playbook."

"That doesn't mean you won't flinch when the blood starts spilling."

"Did I flinch when I offered you fifty million?"

Adrian hummed, a sound of pure calculation. "Money is easy to throw around when you're angry. What happens when he shows up at your door, begging for forgiveness? Playing the victim?"

"I lock the door."

"Not good enough."

"Then I let him in, hand him a microphone, and broadcast his pathetic apologies to the entire league."

Silence stretched between us again. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

"Fifty million buys me a partnership in your agency," I proposed, pushing the advantage. "In exchange, I reopen the door to the Carter family. Every single sports media resource, every prime-time interview slot, every front-page feature we own goes directly to your roster."

"And Liam?"

"Gets nothing. We starve him out. We strip his sponsorships. We turn the press against him until he is unable to buy a ticket to a minor league game."

"You want to burn down the house you built just to trap him inside."

"Are you in or out, Adrian?"

"I offered you a job three years ago," he reminded me. "You told me to go to hell."

"I was young and stupid. Now I'm rich and motivated. Do we have a deal?"

"You realize what happens if you fail? Your father will parade your failure in front of the entire industry. Liam will spin the story to make you look like a bitter, discarded manager. You'll lose the money, the reputation, and the agency."

"I don't fail." I gripped the edge of my nightstand. "I only pivot."

"Fifty million," Adrian repeated, tasting the words. "A partnership stake. Exclusive media rights for my players."

"Yes."

"And Liam's head on a platter."

"Figuratively speaking."

"Do you know what I love the most, Evelyn?"

I waited, letting the tension build. "Tell me."

"Watching the people who hurt me watch themselves lose absolutely everything." His voice dropped an octave, heavy with malice. "Liam cost me a championship ring five years ago. He played dirty, and he got away with it because he had you spinning the press."

"He won't have me anymore."

"Good. Bring the contracts to my office tomorrow at nine. Don't be late."

"I'll be there at eight-thirty."

"Evelyn?"

"What?"

"Dress for war."

The call disconnected.

I lowered the phone. The screen flickered back to my home screen—a picture of Liam and me holding his first MVP trophy. He was smiling at the camera. I was looking at him.

I opened my settings and deleted the photo.

My chest didn't ache. My hands didn't shake. Instead, a strange, electric calm settled over my skin.

I walked over to my closet and pulled open the double doors. Row after row of neutral, unassuming clothes stared back at me. The wardrobe of a manager who never wanted to outshine her client.

I reached past the beige blazers and pulled out a garment bag shoved in the far back corner. I unzipped the plastic.

A crimson silk suit caught the bedroom light. I hadn't worn it since the day I walked out of my father's office.

My phone buzzed again. Another message from Sophia.

*Did you like the show, Evie? He never loved you.*

I stared at the text. My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

*Keep him warm for me, Sophia. The winter is going to be brutal.*

I hit send, tossed the phone onto the mattress, and grabbed my keys. I had a bank transfer to authorize, and a media empire to reclaim.