Chapter 7 – Burn the Playbook

Maeve

The Zenith Arena’s master control room smells of ozone, stale coffee, and the frantic sweat of the production crew I just locked in the hallway. My fingers fly across the massive mixing console, bypassing the broadcast delays and hardwiring the main jumbotron feed directly to my encrypted laptop.

Down below, the ice is covered by a sprawling red carpet. The Federation President stands at a lucite podium, flanked by the ethics committee, bathed in the blinding glare of a hundred press cameras. They called an emergency press conference to publicly sever ties with Irena Marković. They are currently feeding the world a meticulously crafted lie about systemic integrity, burying their sins in the grave I dug for the only woman who tried to fight them.

My hands are shaking so violently I can barely type the final execution command. The phantom weight of the biometric drive is still burning a hole in my pocket. She gave me the weapon, and I used it to slit her throat.

Execute.

The progress bar on my screen flashes green. The Zenith master feed is now mine.

I grab the wireless production microphone from the console, unlatch the heavy soundproof door, and sprint down the concrete stairwell toward the main concourse. I am burning my own life to the ground tonight. Every step I take toward the ice is a felony. I am destroying my private investigator license, my freedom, and my anonymity. But as I burst through the tunnel doors and the freezing air hits my face, I have never felt absolute clarity like this.

Irena

The loading dock at the back of the arena is a wind tunnel of freezing, exhaust-choked air. The trunk of the black town car is open, waiting for my single duffel bag. I am not wearing my skates. I am wearing heavy boots, and every step sends a sickening, grinding spike of pain up my left leg. The wintergreen rub has completely worn off.

I stare into the dark cavern of the trunk. A decade of my life, perfectly erased in twelve hours. The federation gets to keep the medals, the sponsors, and the blood of the junior skaters, while I take the long ride into exile. I did what I always do: I absorbed the blow so the people beneath me wouldn’t break.

"And so, Zenith Arena turns a new page," the President’s voice echoes thinly through the concrete walls, piped in from the arena PA system. "We stand for clean sport. We stand for the athletes."

I close my eyes, the cold wind biting into my cheeks, preparing to toss the bag into the car and disappear.

But the President’s voice abruptly cuts out in a violent screech of audio feedback.

A new voice fills the stadium. It is breathless, raw, and trembling with a lethal, unapologetic fury.

"You don’t stand for anything except your own bottom line."

My breath stops completely. The duffel bag slips from my fingers, hitting the icy asphalt with a dull thud. It is Maeve.

Maeve

I step out from the shadows of the tunnel and walk directly onto the red carpet covering the ice. The camera operators pivot violently, their massive lenses swinging away from the podium to lock onto me. The Federation President’s face drains of blood.

"Turn off the feed!" he barks at the security guards, waving frantically toward the ceiling.

"They can’t," I say, my voice echoing like thunder across the three million viewers I know are watching live. "I locked the broadcast. And I brought the rest of the files."

Behind the President, the massive four-sided jumbotron flickers. The single, damning ledger I leaked this morning vanishes. In its place, a cascade of encrypted communications floods the screens. I press a button on my phone, magnifying a specific document.

"My name is Maeve Quinn," I say into the microphone, walking slowly toward the podium, letting the entire world see my face. "I am a private investigator. Last night, I committed corporate espionage. I stole the medical drive belonging to Irena Marković, and I selectively leaked a fragment of it to frame her for this federation’s crimes."

A collective, deafening gasp ripples through the press corps. The camera flashes erupt like a strobe light in a dark room.

I point at the jumbotron. "Look at the dates. Look at the signatures. Irena didn’t authorize the doping of the junior athletes. She signed a decoy ledger to trigger an audit on herself, forcing the medical staff to abandon the junior locker rooms. She took the target off their backs."

I switch the slide. The screen displays the payout agreement my sister signed, and right beneath it, the private financial transfer from Irena’s personal trust, covering the surgery the federation refused to pay for.

"She didn’t break the skaters," I state, my voice cracking, tears of pure, blinding rage blurring my vision. "She went bankrupt trying to put them back together. And this board used my ignorance to execute her."

Irena

The concrete tunnel blurs past me. I am running.

The searing agony in my ankle is entirely eclipsed by the shockwave detonating in my chest. I push through the heavy velvet curtains, stumbling into the blinding glare of the arena lights just in time to see Maeve standing ten feet from the podium.

Three Zenith security guards are advancing on her, drawing their batons. She doesn’t back down. She drops the microphone and stands her ground, her chin raised, completely surrendering herself to the violence of the system just to clear my name. She is immolating herself for me.

The walls of my carefully constructed, isolated cage shatter into a million pieces. For thirty years, I was taught that the ice only remembers the strong, and that trust is a liability that gets you killed. But looking at the woman who just threw away her entire future to protect a champion she was supposed to ruin, I finally understand the kinetic language she was speaking.

I step onto the red carpet.

Maeve

The heavy hands of a security guard clamp down on my shoulder, but before he can yank me backward, a sharp, authoritative voice slices through the chaos.

"Take your hands off her."

The guard freezes. The entire press corps falls dead silent.

I turn my head. Irena is walking down the center of the carpet. She is limping, making no effort to hide the devastating injury the federation tried to conceal. She looks broken, exhausted, and terrifyingly magnificent.

She walks straight past the President, ignoring his panicked, furious demands for order, and stops directly beside me. The heat radiating from her body in the freezing arena hits me like a physical blow. She looks down at the guard’s hand on my shoulder, her eyes burning with an icy, absolute violence. The guard slowly steps back.

Irena reaches down and picks up the microphone I dropped.

She turns to face the sea of cameras. She doesn’t look at the board members. She reaches out, her bare hand wrapping firmly around mine, intertwining our fingers in front of the entire world. Her grip is bruising, anchoring me to the ice.

"Miss Quinn is entirely correct," Irena says, her voice smooth, cold, and carrying the devastating weight of a final verdict. "And I am officially waiving my non-disclosure agreements. We are going to name every single doctor, every official, and every board member involved. We will see you in federal court."

The President lunges forward, screaming about breach of contract, but Irena just tightens her grip on my hand, leaning closer until her shoulder is pressed flush against mine. The trap is sprung, the bridge is burning, and for the first time in my life, I am not standing in the fire alone.