I Kissed the Quarterback Who Got My Sister Fired

Avery POV

At seven o'clock the next morning, my phone buzzed with a notification from the league's official media account.

I tapped the link. The screen flashed a grainy, four-year-old clip of my sister, Talia, handing her press pass to a security guard. A harsh sound effect triggered, smashing the visual straight to a close-up of my own chest. The name QUINN filled the frame.

Then, Roman’s face appeared, his voice isolated and amplified over a black screen.

"Ask her why she never appealed those three bets."

I scrolled the comments section.

Another Quinn looking for a payout.

Is she trying to sleep with him too?

I found Brianna in the production trailer before the morning meeting. I didn't say hello. I set my phone on her desk and hit play on the secret audio file. Miles’s voice filled the small space, bragging about using my last name for ratings.

Brianna reached for her coffee cup, her expression tightening. “Miles bypassed me and approved the archival footage directly.”

“Take the promo down,” I demanded.

“I can't do that, Avery.” Brianna leaned back in her chair. “And if you take that recording to the ethics committee, they will ask why an intern is secretly taping production meetings. You’ll be blacklisted before lunch.”

I grabbed my phone, sliding it into my pocket.

“Keep the promo up,” I said. “But from now on, every piece of footage involving my sister gets full sourcing and uncut interviews. If you chop up another answer to make me look like a revenge-obsessed groupie, I walk. You can explain to the network why your star subject refuses to talk to anyone else.”

Brianna stared at me. “Deal.”

“Put it in writing,” I said.

Her mouth tightened, but she opened a new email and typed while I watched. Any archival footage involving Talia Quinn would require source notes, full interview context, and producer approval before release. She copied Kelsey and legal. I made her add one more line: my refusal to participate in a misleading edit could not be treated as insubordination.

When the message hit my inbox, I forwarded it to my private account with the audio recording attached. It was not a shield, but it was a paper trail. Crossfield had hired my surname because it provoked Roman. From now on, every time they tried to turn that fact into a weapon, they would have to leave fingerprints.

Two hours later, chaos erupted on the edge of the practice field.

A rookie receiver stood cornered by three beat reporters shoving microphones in his face. A screenshot of his college roommate’s sports betting slip had gone viral overnight, and the press corps smelled blood.

Roman stepped between the rookie and the cameras. He didn't smile.

“We deal with public data and team execution,” Roman told the reporters, his voice cutting through the noise. “What a player’s family or friends do with their own money is their business, provided no internal team information is shared.”

“So you guarantee he didn't leak injury reports?” a reporter shouted.

“I'm not standing here giving anyone a blanket pardon,” Roman answered flatly. “The league investigates, and we focus on Sunday.”

He walked away, leaving the press corps scrambling. I caught up to him near the equipment shed, my camera rig heavy on my shoulder.

“You drew a very clear line for him,” I said, matching his stride. “Why didn't you do that for Talia four years ago?”

Roman stopped. He turned to face me, his helmet dangling from his left hand.

“Because four years ago, I didn't just see internet rumors,” he said.

“You saw an innocent woman getting dragged by the media.”

“I saw an offshore betting account,” Roman corrected, his tone dropping. “Registered directly to your sister’s corporate work email.”

My jaw locked. “Did you verify those betting records yourself?”

“No,” Roman said. “The preliminary inquiry report came straight from the league. My agent, Victor Shaw, handed it to me. The data was right there.”

He turned and walked into the locker room.

I sat on my couch that night, staring at my laptop screen until Talia answered the video call. She looked tired, her hair pulled into a messy knot.

“Did you ever open a sports betting account?” I asked.

No greeting. No small talk.

Talia frowned, adjusting her webcam. “Avery, we went through this four years ago. It was all slander.”

“Roman said the account was real,” I pressed. “He said it was registered to your work email.”

Talia froze. Her eyes darted away from the camera lens.

“He is just trying to make you doubt your own family,” she said, her voice rising in pitch. “Don't let him get in your head.”

Four years ago, she lost her job and spent three months staring at a blank television screen. I had fought anyone who dared mention Roman’s name. Now, her evasion felt like a physical weight pressing on my chest.

“I need a yes or no, Talia,” I said.

The screen went black. She hung up.

A text popped up on my phone a second later.

Don't build your career on putting me back on trial.

I dropped the phone on the cushion. For the first time, I couldn't automatically translate her silence into the pain of a victim.

My laptop chimed. An email from Brianna arrived, containing a PDF attachment.

League Integrity Summary - Archival.

I clicked it open. The report never explicitly accused Talia of match-fixing. It cited her media company revoking her credentials for undisclosed relationship and account activity.

I scrolled down to the appendix.

Three flagged bets. All of them wagered on Roman’s passing yardage. All placed hours before the team publicly announced rest days or minor injuries.

The registration email matched Talia’s old corporate address.

I scanned the final column. Login location.

Hayes residence network.

I took a screenshot of the IP address log and texted the image to Talia.

I sat in the quiet apartment, watching the typing bubble appear, disappear, and reappear on my screen. Three full minutes passed.

My phone vibrated with her reply.

The account is real, but I didn't place those three bets that ruined me.