I Kissed the Quarterback Who Got My Sister Fired

Avery POV

"Pull the platform access logs for my account," I told Brianna, dropping my external hard drive onto her desk. "I need a list of everyone who has clearance to use my credentials in the shared asset pool."

Brianna stopped typing. She looked at the drive, then up at me. "Avery, that requires a security override. I can't just hand over network data."

"Then ask Kelsey to authorize it," I insisted.

Miles walked into the production trailer, holding coffee. "We are shooting a sports documentary, Avery, not conducting a cybersecurity audit. Get your camera. Roman is doing agility drills in ten minutes."

"My sister got blacklisted because of a digital paper trail," I replied, turning to face him. "I am not leaving my account open for a repeat performance. Someone is already digging into my history."

"Your account is fine," Miles snapped. "Stop treating every shadow like a conspiracy. Focus on the season narrative."

"The narrative is compromised if someone else is driving my login," I argued. "If I don't know who has access, I can't protect my footage."

"Drop it," Miles ordered, pointing toward the door. "Or I hand the camera to the backup crew. Go film the drills."

At one o'clock, all the monitors in the production trailer went black.

A red error message flashed across the screens, locking the editing timelines.

Kelsey Reed pushed through the trailer door, a printed report in her hand. She bypassed Miles and walked straight to my station. "Who accessed the restricted editing server at two this morning?"

No one spoke. Brianna froze with her hand hovering over her mouse.

Kelsey dropped the paper on the main console. "Someone downloaded Roman's unreleased shoulder injury footage. The system logged the action under Avery's media credential."

I stood up, my chair scraping harshly against the floorboards. "I didn't download anything."

"The digital tag says otherwise," Kelsey replied, tapping the paper. "It shows your user ID pulling a file that hasn't been cleared for broadcast. That footage is sensitive."

"Look at the timestamp," I said, pointing at the ink. "Two in the morning. I was at the sponsor dinner with the entire crew. You saw me there."

Roman stepped into the trailer, still wearing his practice cleats. He stopped near the doorway, assessing the tension in the room. He glanced at the printed report on the console, then looked at me.

He did not offer a character defense. He pulled out his phone and opened a video file.

"The charity live stream proves she was sitting at table four from midnight until the event ended at three," Roman told Kelsey, his tone strictly professional. He handed the phone to her. "I answered questions on the broadcast at two-fifteen. You can see her in the background talking to the sound mixer."

Kelsey watched the screen. "That proves she wasn't at her laptop," she argued.

"Correct," Roman agreed. "It proves her physical location. It doesn't prove her password remained secure."

He did not ask them to trust me; he asked them to respect the timeline. A timestamp mattered more than a character endorsement.

Kelsey sighed, rubbing her temples. She handed the phone back to Roman. "I will restore your public access, Avery. But your training database privileges stay frozen until IT clears your login."

"You are locking me out of my own project," I said.

"I am securing the footage," Kelsey corrected. "Until we know how your password was used, you don't touch the restricted files."

The system had flagged me the way it once flagged Talia.

Thirty minutes later, Brianna slid a folded piece of paper across her desk toward me.

"I bypassed Kelsey and pulled the raw login details," Brianna whispered, checking the hallway behind her. "The download didn't route through our standard Crossfield servers."

I unfolded the paper. A string of code sat beneath my name. "What is this routing address?"

"A third-party sponsorship portal," she said. "Whoever did this came through a backdoor, not our network."

Roman walked past the editing bay, carrying his playbook. I grabbed the paper and stepped into the hallway, blocking his path.

"Look at this vendor name," I demanded, holding the sheet up.

Roman stopped. He scanned the printed text. The muscles in his jaw locked. The casual posture vanished.

"That tech supplier handles my external endorsements," Roman said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Victor’s agency owns it."

"Victor used that portal to hijack my credential," I said. "He pulled the injury footage to frame me. Lock him out. Revoke his administrative access to your devices right now."

"No," Roman said, stepping closer.

"He is setting me up." I shoved the paper toward his chest. "He did it to my sister, and now he is doing it to me."

"If I cut his access without hard proof, I trigger a breach of contract dispute," Roman shot back, his eyes narrowing. "Victor will get a legal notice from the union. The second he receives it, his team will wipe the servers clean under the guise of data migration."

"So we just wait?" I asked, my voice rising. "I am supposed to sit here while he builds a fake case against me?"

"We secure the evidence before we throw the punch," Roman insisted. "I need my new lawyers to subpoena the logs quietly."

"That strategy cost my sister her career," I told him, refusing to lower my voice. "You waited for someone else to hand you the answers."

Roman didn't flinch. "And rushing in blind will cost you yours. If you alert him now, we lose the only trail we have."

"I am not playing a waiting game with my reputation," I said.

"Then you will lose," Roman stated flatly. He didn't raise his voice, but the finality in his tone was absolute. He turned and walked down the corridor.

At nine that night, my laptop chimed on the hotel desk.

An email from the League Integrity Office sat in my inbox.

I clicked the subject line. An official inquiry form loaded on the screen, accompanied by a screenshot of an offshore betting slip.

My hands tightened on the edge of the desk.

The account was registered under the initials A.Q.

The wager: Roman Hayes passing yards, under.

The timestamp: Eleven minutes before the team publicly announced his shoulder restriction.

The amount was small, but the structure was identical. The headline wrote itself: a second Quinn exploiting quarterback secrets. Victor was moving faster than Roman’s lawyers.

I snatched my phone from the nightstand to call Talia.

The screen lit up before I could dial. A text message from her appeared.

Don't answer any questions from the league. Come to my apartment. There is something I didn't tell you four years ago.

I stared at the text. My pulse hammered against my ribs.

I looked back at the glowing monitor. The formal inquiry demanded a written explanation of my location and device history. The deadline sat in bold red font at the bottom of the page.

Tomorrow, 12:00 PM.

I checked the digital clock on my phone screen. Eleven hours and forty-two minutes remained.

I grabbed my car keys off the mattress and walked out the door.