I Kissed the Quarterback Who Got My Sister Fired

Avery POV

"I understand you are reviewing network logs from a closed inquiry," Victor Shaw said, his hands resting easily in his tailored suit pockets.

I didn't shake his extended hand. I kept my phone gripped tightly in my right palm.

"Did you have administrator access to Roman’s home network four years ago?" I asked.

Victor dropped his arm. His expression remained perfectly pleasant, a mask of corporate patience.

"My firm handles comprehensive brand maintenance for our top clients," Victor replied. "That includes digital security, hardware monitoring, and securing personal networks against outside threats."

"So you controlled the guest room tablet," I concluded.

"I suggest you separate your season documentary from your family matters, Avery." Victor tilted his head, his voice smooth. "Blurring those lines never ends well for the reporter."

"Let her ask her questions, Victor."

Roman stepped out of the adjacent meeting room. He wore gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, his jaw tight as he closed the distance between us.

"I am handling a media inquiry, Roman," Victor said, his tone smoothing out even further.

"You are handling my personal history," Roman corrected. He stopped right next to my shoulder, forming a physical barrier between the agent and me. "Don't answer for me."

Victor offered a crisp nod. He didn't argue. He turned and walked down the carpeted corridor, disappearing around the corner.

I turned my phone screen toward Roman. The VS-Admin log glowed in the dim hallway light.

"Your agency managed the sponsor tablets and the home network," I said. "From your rookie season."

Roman looked at the screen, then up at my face. "Yes. They did."

"Which means deciding the home network automatically equaled Talia was an incomplete conclusion," I pressed. "Someone else had access to that specific device at three in the morning. Someone from Victor's team."

Roman crossed his arms over his chest. "I didn't ask them to verify the administrator logs back then."

"Why not?"

"Because she hid an offshore betting account from me for nine months," he said, his voice dropping. "I wanted to believe the hidden account was enough proof."

"That doesn't make it the truth," I shot back.

"It made it easier than wondering who else was lying to me," Roman said.

"I will have my new legal team pull the old agency contracts," Roman continued, shifting his weight. "We can request the device permission logs from the security vendor."

I lowered my phone, genuinely surprised. "Why would you do that? You spent four years ignoring this."

"Because I don't want a camera crew hunting for ghosts in my locker room," Roman said. "But I have one condition."

"I don't agree to conditions blind."

"Every document gets independent verification," Roman stated. "You don't put a single page into the documentary just because it clears your sister."

"I am a journalist. You don't get to lecture me on how to verify sources."

"I already learned what happens when you treat the closest thing to an answer as the whole truth," Roman said, taking a step toward me. "I am not repeating that mistake with another Quinn."

"A permission log is a hard fact," I argued, refusing to back down. "It carries a lot more weight than your assumption about her six wagers."

"The logs don't change the reality of those six bets," Roman countered.

I froze. My fingers tightened around the edge of my phone case.

"Six?" I asked.

Roman’s eyes narrowed. He studied my face.

"The league integrity summary cited three flagged bets," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the sudden hollow feeling in my stomach. "Where are you getting six?"

Roman stopped. The defensive posture melted out of his shoulders, replaced by a rigid stillness.

"She didn't tell you," he said.

"Tell me what?"

"That isn't my place to confess," Roman said.

"You don't get to drop a number like that and walk away," I demanded, stepping into his path.

"Ask your sister," he said.

He turned his back to me and walked toward the elevator.

His restraint stung worse than his anger. He wasn't trying to smear her anymore. He was protecting a secret my own sister still kept from me.

At two o'clock the next afternoon, the projector hummed in the offensive film room.

"Roll the tape back," Roman instructed the assistant coach.

I adjusted the focus ring on my camera. We were pushing the private conflict into the strict framework of a Tuesday practice schedule.

On the screen, the opposing defense shifted into a cover-two shell. Roman dropped back in the pocket, then threw the ball directly into the hands of a waiting safety.

"I misread the linebacker's drop," Roman said, pointing a laser pointer at the frozen frame. "My eyes were in the wrong place."

"Did the right tackle miss his blocking assignment?" I asked from behind the lens. "He looks late off the snap."

Roman lowered the laser pointer. He looked directly into my camera lens.

"The tackle didn't throw the interception," Roman said. "I did. Keep that admission in the final edit. Don't cut it to make the offensive line look bad."

"Miles prefers the angle where the star player blames the supporting cast," I pointed out.

"Miles doesn't play in the pocket," Roman replied. "I do."

He didn't fear ugly footage. He feared a clip lacking cause and effect, an isolated moment used to define a person's entire character. He possessed rigid professional boundaries now. It only highlighted the bitter truth: four years ago, he spoke the words that ruined Talia without doing the work to verify them.

The film session ended. I packed my lenses into the padded carrying case.

Heavy footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor of the facility hallway. Victor Shaw walked through the double doors, a leather briefcase gripped in his right hand.

He stopped next to the hydration station, shaking Roman’s hand.

"Good session?" Victor asked.

"Standard review," Roman answered, wiping a towel across the back of his neck.

Victor turned his attention to me. The polite smile returned to his face.

"Your sister was highly talented," Victor said, his tone conversational. "She was just too fond of turning personal problems into professional stories."

I zipped my equipment bag closed. I stood up, facing him directly.

"Do you still have the device management records from four years ago?" I asked.

Victor’s smile faded by a fraction of an inch. The warmth vanished from his eyes.

"All compliance materials were processed and disposed of according to standard protocol," Victor said. "You shouldn't invent fake doubts just to create drama for a documentary."

Roman stepped forward, tossing his towel onto a nearby bench. "Victor—"

"I am only asking a technical question," I interrupted, cutting Roman off.

Victor looked down at the press pass resting against my chest. He stared at the bold letters spelling out my last name.

"If you are smarter than your sister," Victor said softly, "you will know when not to let a surname ruin a second career."