3

Allie Logan’s birthday had been circled on my calendar for weeks. Twenty-seven. I wanted it perfect, his favorite red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting, the one his mom used to make. He had told me he had training all day, grueling sessions with the team before their next big stretch of games. “Don’t wait up, babe. I’ll be wiped,” he’d said last night, kissing me goodbye with that tired but sweet smile. I wasn’t about to let him spend his birthday exhausted and alone. My kitchen looked like a bakery exploded. Flour dusted the counters, bowls everywhere, and the rich smell of cocoa and vanilla filled the air. I have been at it for hours, sleeves rolled up on my oversized sweater, hair twisted into a messy bun. My best friend Mia and two other girls from our circle, Sarah and Lena, had come over to help with decorations, streamers in the team’s colors, balloons that said “GOAL GETTER,” and a huge banner that read “Happy Birthday, #1.” “You’re too good to him,” Mia teased, tying a ribbon around a gift bag. “Most guys would get takeout and call it a day.” I laughed, carefully layering the frosting. “He deserves it. After everything this season… he’s been so focused. This will make him smile.” I set up my phone on a tripod, starting the livestream for my followers. A few thousand joined almost immediately mostly fans who loved our couple content. “Hey everyone! Today’s a special day. Logan’s birthday, and I am surprising him with his favorite cake. Wish him luck for me!” Comments flooded in: You’re the best girlfriend ever! Relationship goals af. Logan is so lucky. Bake one for us next time, Allie! Their words warmed me. After yesterday’s interview and that weird run-in with Chase Ryder, this felt right. Normal. Us against the world. I panned the camera over the cake, the decorations, laughing as I answered questions about the recipe and how long we’d been together. “Two years next month,” I said, smiling at the lens. “Feels like yesterday he scored that goal and winked at me from the ice.” More hearts. Marry him already! You two are perfect. By late afternoon, the cake was done—three perfect layers, smooth frosting, his number “27” piped in black and gold on top. We packed everything into my car: cake, balloons, gifts, even a bottle of his favorite whiskey. My friends hugged me goodbye, promising to check the stream later. “Text us when he cries happy tears,” Sarah called. The drive to Logan’s luxury penthouse downtown felt exciting. He kept the place for “team recovery” and late nights, though we spent most time at my apartment. I parked in the underground garage, balancing the cake carefully as I headed up in the private elevator. The livestream stayed on, my followers loved these real-life moments. “Almost there, guys,” I whispered to the camera, keeping my voice low. “He has no idea. Shh!” The penthouse was strangely quiet when I let myself in with my key. No music. No shower running. Just the low hum of the city far below the floor-to-ceiling windows. The living room looked untouched minimalist furniture, hockey memorabilia on the walls, his jerseys framed like art. “Logan?” I called softly. “Babe?” Nothing. Maybe he was napping after training. I smiled at the camera. “He must be in the bedroom. Let’s surprise him!” My heart beat faster with anticipation. I walked down the hallway, phone held out in one hand, the cake box in the other. The bedroom door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open with my hip, stepping inside with a bright “Happy Birth—” The words died in my throat. Logan was in bed. Naked. On top of a woman with long dark hair fanned across the pillows. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, red nails digging into his back as he thrust into her with deep, familiar strokes. The sheets were tangled around them, her moans filling the room—loud, breathy, real. His grunts matched the rhythm, the slap of skin on skin echoing. For a second, everything froze. Then the cake box slipped from my hands. It hit the floor with a sickening splat, red velvet and white frosting exploding across the hardwood. The woman gasped. Logan’s head whipped around, eyes wide with shock. “Allie—f**k!” The livestream. Still rolling. Thousands of viewers now. The comments exploded in real time, but I couldn’t read them through the blur of tears. “What the hell?” I choked out. My voice cracked. The phone trembled in my grip, capturing everything—Logan scrambling off the bed, the woman yanking sheets over herself, her smeared lipstick and flushed skin. “Babe, it’s not—” Logan started, jumping up. He was still hard, glistening, reaching for his boxers on the floor. “Wait, Allie, please—” I backed away, the phone dropping to my side but still recording. “Not what? Not you f*****g someone else on your birthday? While I baked you a goddamn cake?” Tears burned hot down my cheeks. My chest felt like it was caving in. This was Logan. My Logan. The one who called me his good luck charm. The golden boy the whole world loved. The woman, some model-looking girl I vaguely recognized from club photos sat up, eyes darting between us. “s**t, I thought you said she knew…” “Shut up,” Logan snapped at her, then turned to me, face desperate. “Allie, baby, it was a mistake. Training got canceled. I was stressed, and she was just… it didn’t mean anything.” I laughed, but it came out as a sob. The livestream chat was chaos, could hear the notifications pinging like gunfire. OH MY GOD. HE’S CHEATING?! Allie run! This is live?! I turned and ran. Down the hallway, through the living room, out the door. Logan’s shouts followed me—“Allie! Come back! We can talk about this!” but I didn’t stop. The elevator felt like it took forever, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I clutched my phone, ending the stream with shaking fingers, but the damage was done. Thousands had seen it. The world had seen it. Outside, the city blurred through my tears. I got in my car and drove, no destination, just away. My phone wouldn’t stop blowing up, calls from Mia, texts from friends, unknown numbers, reporters probably. I ignored it all, pulling into a random parking lot near the river and finally letting the sobs take over. How long? How many times? The way he moved with her… it was practiced. Comfortable. Like it wasn’t the first time. I thought about the interview yesterday. How proudly I’d spoken about his support. How fans called us perfect. And Chase Ryder’s smirk flashed in my mind uninvited. Second place looks good on him. Was this why? Was Logan always chasing something he couldn’t catch, on the ice, and now this? My chest hurt so bad I could barely breathe. I loved him. I’d built my life around him. The posts, the appearances, the future I imagined—wedding, kids, cheering from the stands. All of it shattered on a bedroom floor covered in red velvet cake. Hours passed. The sun dipped low, painting the sky in oranges and pinks that felt mocking. My phone had died from the constant alerts. When I finally checked it at a gas station, charging it in my car, the internet had exploded. Clips of the livestream were everywhere. My shocked face. The cake dropping. Logan’s naked panic. Hashtags trended: #AllieExposed, #LoganCheats, #GoldenCoupleDown. Some fans defended him, Guys make mistakes. Others tore him apart. A few even tagged Chase Ryder: Maybe Allie should upgrade. I felt sick. Mia called again. This time I answered. “Where are you?” she asked, voice frantic. “I saw the stream. Oh my god, Allie…” “I don’t know,” I whispered. “I just… ran.” “Come to my place. Stay here tonight. We’ll figure this out.” I drove to her apartment in a daze. She hugged me the second I walked in, letting me cry into her shoulder. Sarah and Lena showed up soon after with wine and ice cream, no questions at first. “He’s blowing up your phone,” Lena said gently, scrolling. “And the team’s PR is probably in crisis mode.” I didn’t care. I curled up on the couch, still in the sweater dusted with flour from this morning’s happy baking. The scent of vanilla clung to me like a cruel reminder. Later, alone in Mia’s guest room, I stared at the ceiling. Logan had left voicemails pleading, apologetic, angry. “It was one time. I swear. Don’t throw us away over this.” One time. Right. Sleep wouldn’t come. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them. Heard her moans. Felt the cake box slip from my fingers. And underneath the heartbreak, something sharper flickered, manger. Humiliation. And a tiny, dangerous spark of something else. Freedom, maybe. Or curiosity about what else was out there. The man who’d spent years in Logan’s shadow. The one with the smirk and the gray eyes. I shoved that thought down hard. No. Not now. Tomorrow I’d face the world. The questions. The pity. The judgment. Tonight, I just let myself break. But even in the dark, with tears drying on my cheeks, I whispered to myself: “I deserve better than second place.”