One Night to Rewrite Him

The freezing rain on the rooftop terrace of the After Dark hotel felt like needles against my cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the ice in Marcus Hale’s voice. “The league is out for blood, Bridget,” Marcus said over the phone, his tone as perfectly tailored as the suits he wore to the owner’s box. “Farid’s little display on the ice tonight crossed a line. I need his signature on the disciplinary agreement by dawn, or the suspension stands for the season. And Bridget? If he doesn’t sign, I won’t have a use for your consulting services anymore.” “Understood, Marcus,” I said, my voice steady even as my chest tightened. “Good. I expect a clean narrative by morning. Reframe this, or you’re both done.” The line went dead. I lowered my phone, staring out over the rain-slick rooftop. Below us, the Northwood Civic Arena was a glowing monolith in the dark, the giant exterior screens looping the silent, slow-motion footage of Farid Whitaker shoving a rival player into the glass. The heavy metal door to the terrace slammed open. Farid stormed out into the downpour, his tie yanked loose, his expensive wool coat slung over his broad shoulders. Right behind him was Lena Park, the team’s publicist. “You can’t just walk out of a presser, Farid!” Lena yelled, her bright media-ready polish cracking under the sheer force of her temper. She scrolled frantically on her phone, the screen lighting up her face. “Do you have any idea what the sentiment metrics look like right now? You are trending for assault!” “He came at me first, Lena,” Farid snapped, turning to face her. His dark eyes were wild, his jaw tight beneath his neatly groomed beard. The bruised knuckles of his right hand stood out starkly as he gestured toward the arena. “He used a slur. You want me to just smile and take it?” “I want you to let me do my job!” Lena countered, stabbing a color-coded highlighter at him like a weapon. “We were still aligning messaging, and you completely blew up the runway. Now the league is breathing down our necks!” “They’re always breathing down our necks!” “Enough,” I stepped out from the shadows of the awning. Farid’s head snapped toward me, his chest heaving. The rain caught in his close-cropped black hair, glittering under the security lights. For a second, the anger in…