Secret Lines

Summer

We were dating for real now, but our reality had become a double-edged sword.

It was a strange, covert existence.

Every morning, we would meet on set for Beyond the Ice, hitting our marks under the hot studio lights, delivering our required date segments, and letting Sarah Sterling believe she was a genius producer directing a masterpiece of modern television.

We held hands when the red lights blinked, we smiled for the b-roll packages, and we let the social media managers curate our "wholesome, grounding romance."

But when the directors yelled cut, and the crew packed up the cameras, the real story began.

We spent our nights in the back corner of the twenty-four hour campus diner—the same diner where Jaxson's scandal had started.

We sat in the high-backed vinyl booths where the light didn't quite reach, sharing a single plate of cheap, greasy fries while the neon sign outside buzzed a low, rhythmic hum against the glass.

I would sit with my laptop open, editing my broadcast journalism portfolio, while Jaxson studied game films on his tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"You're changing your skating angle on the power play," I murmured one Tuesday night, not looking up from my screen as I cut an audio clip of a campus interview.

Jaxson looked up from his tablet, a frown wrinkling his forehead, his amber eyes blinking in surprise.

"What?"

"Your left pivot," I said, turning my laptop around so he could see the video file I had ripped from the athletic department's internal database.

“Look right here. Every time the puck goes into the corner during a man-advantage, you shift your weight to your right skate a second too early. You’re anticipating the hit from behind because you’re trying to keep your head up and look for the cameras. It’s making your transition lag by half a second. The State scouts are going to notice it before the championship."

Jaxson stared at the screen, then looked up at me, a slow, incredulous grin spreading across his face.

"Are you breaking down my defensive tape, Brooks?"

"I'm a journalist, Reed. I notice patterns," I said, a small, smug smile touching my lips as I leaned back in the booth and popped a fry into my mouth.

“And right now, your pattern is predictable. If I can see it from the press box, the State forwards are going to exploit it within the first five minutes of the first period."

Jaxson let out a low, rough laugh, reaching across the laminate table to catch my hand.

His long fingers wrapped around mine, his thumb tracing the soft skin of my wrist.

The contrast of his rough, hockey-calloused skin against mine still sent a quiet shiver through my veins, but now, it felt like home.

“God, you're terrifying. Remind me never to get on your bad side again."

"Too late for that. I’ve already written the exposé," I joked, my fingers curling around his, squeezing back.

The warmth of his grip was the only thing keeping me grounded these days.

The network had just paid my remaining tuition balance in full I had checked the student portal that morning and seen the glorious, beautiful zero next to my name. My future was secure.

The assistant producer contract for the New York studio was sitting in my inbox, waiting for my final signature after graduation.

Everything was perfect.

Jaxson was dominating on the ice, the team was on a five-game winning streak, and the public had completely forgotten about the assault scandal.

We were the golden couple of Eastern University, a commercial success story for HypeTV.

"Hey," Jaxson said softly, his voice dropping to a level that made the buzzing neon sign fade into the background.

His eyes were fixed on mine, full of a quiet, steady weight. "The championship game is in two weeks. My mom and sister are flying in from Michigan. I want you to meet them. For real. Not for a scripted family-dinner segment. I want them to know the girl who actually saved my life."

My heart did a strange, heavy thud—not from panic, but from a deep, profound sense of joy that scared me. "I’d love that, Jaxson. Really. I want to meet them too."

"Good," he said, leaning across the table, his lips brushing against mine in a quick, gentle kiss that tasted of salt and coffee.

“Because my sister already thinks you're too good for me based on the show's edits. I need you to tell her she's right."

We laughed, the sound soft and warm in the quiet diner.

We felt invincible.

We had beaten the system at its own game.

We had taken their corporate money, saved our respective futures, and found something real in the middle of a multi-million dollar lie.

But we forgot the first rule of reality television: the producers always have a final cut, and they don't care who gets destroyed to get it.