[Axel’s POV]
I haven't slept. Two days of ceiling contemplation like it might suddenly explain how grocery shopping became disaster.
The photos went viral around six AM—phone vibrating so aggressively it walked itself off the nightstand. Electronic suicide by repetitive motion.
Seven AM: agent calling. Bjorn never calls before nine unless someone's died or my contract's in jeopardy. "Axel, we need to talk about damage control."
"There's no damage."
"The internet disagrees. Call me back."
Eight AM: team PR wanted a meeting. The kind where they use words like "optics" while meaning "explain yourself before we trade you to Cleveland."
Nine AM: Mateo pacing seventeen steps from window to door, turn, seventeen back. Forty-seven minutes creating visible wear patterns in hardwood. The rhythm's hypnotic in a way that makes me want to tackle him just to break the cycle.
He's talking to himself in rapid-fire Spanish. I catch fragments: "las fotos" and "ella piensa"—what Selene thinks, which is the problem because she won't answer our calls.
Texts sit in my phone like evidence. Dozens showing "Delivered" never "Read"—worse than being blocked.
I sent: We need to talk. This wasn't planned.
Mateo sent: Please just tell us you're okay.
Nothing.
"She hates us," Mateo says, switching to English mid-stride. "She thinks we did this on purpose. That we—Dios mío, Axel, what if she thinks we used her? Like we were trying to force her hand by going public?"
"She doesn't think that."
"You don't know what she thinks! None of us know because she won't fucking answer!" His voice cracks on the last word. Not quite breaking, but close enough that my chest does something uncomfortable and protective.
My phone buzzes. Both of us freeze—Mateo mid-step, me mid-breath—staring at the screen like it might explode.
It's Mateo's message from three hours ago. The "Read" receipt just appeared underneath.
Five minutes of nothing. Then a single text:
S. Marlowe: I need space. Don't contact me right now.
The air leaves the room. Vacuum-sealed silence that makes my ears ring.
Mateo stops pacing. Just stands there holding his phone like it's evidence. His shoulders drop—he looks smaller than six-foot-seven, which shouldn't be physically possible.
"She hates us," he repeats quietly.
I cross to him, take the phone gently, and set it face-down. "Sit."
He collapses. Head drops onto my shoulder. I can feel his heart hammering, breathing too fast.
I put my arm around him. Solid presence saying I'm here.
His breathing gradually slows from panic to manageable.
Neither of us says anything. This is what we do—exist together when words fail.
Outside, Seattle does Sunday things. Inside, two men sit processing how groceries became scandal.
"We have that meeting," Mateo says. "With PR."
"I know."
"What are we going to tell them?"
"Nothing. It's personal."
"They're going to ask about the kids, Selene—"
"And we tell them it doesn't affect our ability to play."
"Does it?"
I have no idea. Hard to focus when the woman who might be the mother of your children just sent "leave me alone indefinitely."
"We're professionals," I tell him. "We show up. We play."
He nods, not believing it but wanting to desperately.
My phone buzzes. Team PR: Meeting at 11.
"We should go."
"Yeah." Neither of us moves for five more minutes. Pretending the couch is a fortress.
* * *
The facility feels hostile.
Same building, same fluorescent lights, same motivational posters about teamwork. But energy shifted. Like walking into a party where everyone was just talking about you. Eyes follow us. Conversations stop mid-sentence. Someone whispers something ending with "scandal."
They separate us. "Mr. Nielsen, Conference Room A. Mr. Velasco, Conference Room C."
Divide and conquer. Classic interrogation.
My meeting is clinical. Three suits: PR head, legal counsel, someone whose title I don't catch but who looks like she eats contracts for breakfast.
"Mr. Nielsen, we need to understand the nature of your relationship with Dr. Marlowe."
"Personal."
"The photos suggest—"
"Personal."
"Are the children yours?"
"Not answering that."
"We're trying to help you—"
"By asking invasive questions?" I lean back. "The photos show grocery shopping. Nothing illegal. Nothing unethical. If people want to speculate, that's their problem."
Legal Counsel makes a note. "Your contract has a morality clause."
"Which I haven't violated. Shopping isn't immoral. Having children isn't immoral. Dating a team employee isn't forbidden. Check it." I've checked it twice at four AM when sleep was impossible and anxiety was infinite.
"Does this affect your ability to play?"
"No."
"You're certain?"
"Completely."
"We'll need a statement."
"No statement. Private life stays private."
I walk out. Mateo's leaning against the wall looking wrecked.
"How'd it go?" I ask.
"Terrible. They asked if I was the father and when I said I didn't know they looked at me like I was lying." He pushes off the wall. "They want statements. Explanations. Apologies for something we didn't even do wrong."
"We're not apologizing."
"I know. I told them that. They weren't thrilled." He runs both hands through his curls, making them stand up in every direction. "What did they ask you?"
"Nature of the relationship. Are the children mine. Does this affect my ability to play."
"What did you tell them?"
"Personal, not answering, and no." I start walking. "They mentioned the morality clause. Already checked it at four AM. We're clean."
"You checked your contract at four in the morning?"
"Couldn't sleep. Seemed productive."
Mateo laughs—not happy laughter, but the kind when everything's so absurd you either laugh or scream. "Only you would turn anxiety into contract research."
We head toward the parking lot. We get in quietly, late morning sun illuminating Mateo’s eyes.
He breaks first. "What if she never talks to us again?"
The question I've been avoiding since that text arrived.
"She will," I say, but it sounds hollow even to me.
"You don't know that."
"No." Honesty feels important. "I don't."
His leg starts bouncing—that anxious energy that comes before full spiral. I reach over without thinking and put my hand on his knee, stilling the motion.
He looks at me. Something vulnerable and grateful in his expression, like he needed permission to stop moving.
Then he covers my hand with his own. Not romantic. Not sexual. Just—connection. Grounding. The physical manifestation of we're in this together.
"We should go home," I say finally. "Regroup."
"Yeah." But neither of us moves. We sit there for another minute, hands still touching.
"I need to grab my bag," Mateo says. "Left it in the locker room."
"I'll come with you."
We walk back inside. The building feels different now—like a space that knows what we did but isn't saying anything.
The hallway near the administrative offices is quiet. Most staff at lunch. Just HVAC hum and footsteps echoing.
"You think she's still here?" Mateo asks quietly.
"Probably. She had that meeting with management."
"Right. The one where they decide if she still has a career."
"Don't."
"I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying. Don't."
We're twenty feet from the turn when a door opens down the hall.
Selene steps out of her office.
Full armor—sharpest blazer, severe hair, professional polish screaming don't fuck with me. Weapon heels.
Her face cycles through emotions in half a second. Surprise, fear, anger—emotional flashcards at speed.
She freezes mid-step. Hand still on the door handle. We freeze. Mateo's hand halfway through a gesture he'll never finish. Twenty feet of hallway between us and no idea how to cross it.