Don’t Tempt Me, Captain

ZURI I know I'm getting fired when they put my naked body on the conference room television. Well. Not my naked body. I stare at the photograph taking up most of the sixty-inch screen and wonder whether this is what an out-of-body experience feels like. The woman has my face. My dark hair cascades over one shoulder. My mouth is curved in a smile I recognize because it came from a photograph Nina, my best friend, took of me last summer. Everything below my neck belongs to somebody else. I know that because I have a small birthmark beneath my left breast. Plus, my breasts are not that perky. It seems inappropriate to mention either fact. "Is this the only image?" My voice sounds remarkably normal. Across the conference table, Ansel Creed, general manager of the Portland Vipers, shifts in his chair. He hasn't looked me directly in the eye since I walked in. "Answer me." There are four people in the room. Ansel. Ione Graves from communications. A lawyer whose name I forgot two seconds after he introduced himself. And Dr. Indila Saran, who has supervised me for nearly two years. Silence greets me, and my stomach caves. "There are more?" Ione reaches for the laptop. "Several." Tears well up in my eyes as I clench my fists. She clicks, and new photographs fill the screen. I look away, my lower lip trembling. We're on the twenty-third floor of a beautiful Vancouver hotel. The Vipers are here for a preseason hockey invitational. I had plans tonight. Shower. Call Wells. Maybe convince him that long-distance relationships don't have to consist entirely of good morning, busy day, and sorry, fell asleep. Instead, I'm sitting beneath fluorescent lights while strangers catalogue counterfeit photographs of my v****a. "Turn it off," Indila says. Ione does. The screen goes black. My reflection replaces the photographs. Long dark braid over one shoulder. Navy blouse. Vipers staff credential still hanging around my neck. Ansel folds his hands. "The images were submitted as part of a formal complaint." "By Dacre," I croak. Nobody needs to answer. But the lawyer does anyway. "Mr. Shaw, yes." I let out a laugh, wiping my face as a tear escapes. Four heads turn, and I cover my mouth. "Sorry." Captain Dacre Shaw. Twenty-nine years old. The man who put his hand on my thigh three nights ago while I was working on his shoulder and asked whether I ever wondered what his mouth could do to me. I told him that if he touched me like that again, I'd file a formal complaint. Looks like he beat me to it. Ansel's expression tightens. "This is serious, Zuri." "I know," I mutter. "The photographs aren't the entirety of the complaint." Of course they aren't. I look at Ione. "What else?" She turns the laptop toward me. Messages. Dozens of them. My name sits at the top, my photograph beside it. ZURI: Why won't you answer me? ZURI: I saw you leave with her. My fingers slowly curl beneath the table. Another screenshot fills the screen. DACRE: Please stop contacting me outside work. ZURI: Don't pretend you don't want this. By the fifth, I stop reading. Ice crawls through my veins. "These aren't mine." Ansel sighs. “Zuri." "No." I sit forward. "Don't Zuri me like I'm being difficult. Check my phone." Nobody moves. "Take it." I pull my phone from my pocket and slide it across the table. It travels farther than intended and bumps against Ansel's folder. "Go through it. Check my deleted messages. Photos. Cloud storage. Whatever you need." "We cannot simply—" "Then get someone who can." "Zuri," Ione says softly, "digital communication can be deleted." I stare at her. "Wonderful. Then why are his screenshots evidence?" Silence creeps in. Indila leans back in her chair. "I asked the same question." My heart starts racing. "Am I suspended?" Ansel and Ione exchange a glance. That's... worse. "What?" Ansel pushes a folder toward me. "We believe it would be in everyone's best interest to terminate your current employment agreement." I stare at the folder. “On a road trip. At night. Based on pictures I didn’t take and messages I didn’t send.” Ansel’s mouth flattens. “Our sponsors want you off the roster sheet before the morning skate to avoid complications.” “So I’m the cheaper problem.” Nobody contradicts me. My stupid, beautiful job. I remember how proud my family was when I got it. 'Our girl did it all by herself.' That was the part I loved most. It wasn't because my family wouldn't have helped me. They would. Zayn had already offered to give me a spot in Seattle. I'd said no. I wanted one thing that didn't begin with someone recognizing my surname because of my brother. Portland had been mine. I look at Ansel. "You're firing me." "The organization has decided to terminate your contract under a conduct and discretionary provision," the lawyer says. I snatch my phone back from the table. Then I shoot to my feet, suddenly unable to breathe. "I need to call my attorney." I don't have an attorney. Even so, I don't wait. I storm out of the office, my chest heaving. Halfway down the hallway, my phone starts vibrating and doesn't stop. I glance down. My fingers tremble as I unlock my phone. There are thirty-eight new messages. A link from Nina sits at the top. NINA: ZURI DO NOT GO ON TWITTER. Which, obviously, means I open Twitter. The first post loads, and I see my face alongside Dacre's. A censored version of the photograph I saw less than ten minutes ago. VIPERS CAPTAIN DACRE SHAW ACCUSES FEMALE STAFF MEMBER OF STALKING & s****l HARASSMENT My ears start ringing. It has twelve thousand likes. "Fuck." With shaky hands, I turn off my phone. Pressure builds beneath my ribs until I can’t drag in a full breath. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t— I reach blindly for the elevator button and stumble inside. I get out on the eighteenth floor even though my room is four floors above. The doors close behind me. Oh, God... Wells... What if he saw it already? My stomach churns painfully and I gag, holding a hand to my mouth. At the far end of the corridor is a door marked STAIRS. I push through and keep going up until I'm gasping for air, sweat soaking my temples. Finally, I see another door. A sign is attached to it. ROOFTOP TERRACE CLOSED DUE TO WEATHER. I push the bar, swallowing hard. The door opens and cold air slaps me across the face. The roof is mostly dark, illuminated by small lights along the floor and the enormous city glowing beyond it. Vancouver spreads below me in wet streaks of white and gold. Rain has stopped, but everything gleams from it. I walk towards the railing on shaky legs. I close my eyes. I just need ten minutes before I call Mum, Dad, and Zayn. Ten minutes where I don't have to be brave or reasonable or easy to deal with. I hear a loud scraping sound, and my eyes snap open. I freeze. There's someone else up here. At the far end of the terrace, a man stands with his back to me. He's huge and barefoot. His shoulders stretch beneath a black sweatshirt. Then I notice the brace. It wraps his left knee. And then I notice something else. The railing. My brain takes a second to understand what I'm seeing. He's on the other side of it. Blood drains from my face. "Hey." The man doesn't move. Every thought in my head disappears. "Hey," I repeat, my voice shakier. His head tilts. Slowly, he turns, and the wind throws long golden hair across his face. Glazed green eyes find mine. Fuck. I know those eyes.