Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~9 min read
Chapter 9: The Secret
POV: Rory
Rory – SECRET AFFAIR BEGINS
Rory wakes up Friday morning wrapped around Henrik like a vine on a trellis, her face buried in his shoulder and his arms warm and solid around her waist, and for approximately thirty seconds before her brain fully boots up she feels completely content in a way she hasn’t felt since before her marriage imploded, and then reality crashes in with the force of remembering that she’s in bed with the hockey player she’s supposed to be covering professionally and if anyone from the Tribune finds out about this her career is essentially over.
“You’re overthinking,” Henrik murmurs without opening his eyes, his voice rough with sleep in a way that does unfair things to Rory’s ability to maintain rational thought. “I can feel you panicking from here.”
“I’m not panicking,” Rory lies, even though she’s absolutely panicking about the fact that Henrik stayed over, that she asked him to stay, that they’re currently tangled together in her bed and she has to be at work in two hours to cover the team he plays for. “I’m just… processing. How this works. Us and work and keeping them separate.”
“Coffee first,” Henrik suggests, finally opening his eyes to look at her with an expression that’s soft and sleepy and dangerously attractive. “Then we panic about logistics.”
They disentangle themselves from each other and Rory makes coffee while Henrik uses her bathroom and checks his phone for messages from teammates who are presumably wondering where he disappeared to after dinner last night, and by the time they’re sitting at her tiny kitchen table with mugs and the early morning light filtering through cheap blinds, Rory’s managed to calm the panic enough to have a rational conversation about what happens next.
“So,” Rory says, wrapping her hands around her coffee mug like it might provide answers along with caffeine. “We’re doing this. Actually dating. Which means we need rules about how to handle seeing each other at work.”
“Rules,” Henrik repeats, and he looks amused but not dismissive. “Okay. What do you need?”
“Complete professional distance at practices and games,” Rory says immediately. “No special treatment in interviews, no inside information about team dynamics, no flirting where other journalists can see. I need to maintain credibility as an objective reporter.”
“Agreed,” Henrik says without hesitation. “What else?”
“We keep this quiet,” Rory continues. “From both our worlds. Your teammates don’t need to know we’re actually dating—let them think we’re just casually hooking up if they’ve noticed anything. My colleagues definitely can’t know. And we don’t post anything on social media or go anywhere public together where we might get photographed.”
“That sounds lonely,” Henrik observes. “Hiding all the time.”
“It’s necessary,” Rory says firmly. “At least until we know if this is actually going somewhere. If it turns out we’re incompatible or the complications are too much, I don’t want my entire professional reputation destroyed for a relationship that didn’t last.”
Henrik is quiet for a moment, studying her with an intensity that makes Rory nervous, and then he says carefully, “I understand protecting your career. I respect it. But Rory, I need you to understand something too—I don’t do casual. If we’re dating, I’m serious about it. I’m not hiding you because I’m ashamed or because this is just a hookup. I’m hiding you because you asked me to and your job matters. But eventually, if this works, I’m going to want to stop hiding.”
“Eventually,” Rory agrees, because that feels manageable when eventually is vague and distant. “But for now, secret. Professional distance. Separate work from personal.”
“Deal,” Henrik says, extending his hand across the table like they’re negotiating a business contract instead of a relationship, and Rory shakes it while trying not to smile at the absurdity of formalizing dating rules over coffee.
Henrik leaves before seven to make it home and change for practice, and Rory shows up at the facility two hours later to find him on the ice running drills with the same focused intensity he always has during practice, and when their eyes meet briefly across the rink there’s nothing in his expression that suggests they spent last night kissing on her couch and this morning negotiating relationship boundaries—just professional acknowledgment, exactly what they agreed to.
She interviews three different players about the upcoming game against Boston, takes notes on defensive formations that might make good article material, and maintains absolutely zero personal interaction with Henrik beyond the standard post-practice question about his thoughts on the team’s current winning streak, and by the time she’s back at her desk writing up her observations, she’s almost convinced herself that they can actually pull this off.
Secret relationship.
Professional boundaries.
Completely manageable.
Her phone buzzes with a text from Henrik: *Lunch tomorrow? My place. I’ll cook.*
*You cook?* Rory texts back.
*I’m Swedish. Of course I cook. Prepare to have your mind blown by meatballs.*
*Is that a euphemism?* Rory sends, and she’s smiling at her desk in a way that probably looks suspicious to anyone paying attention.
*It can be if you want it to be,* Henrik responds. *But actually I’m talking about actual Swedish meatballs. With lingonberry sauce. And then maybe the euphemism after if you’re interested.*
Rory laughs quietly and texts back: *I’m interested. Noon?*
*Perfect. Bring an appetite.*
They fall into a pattern over the next two weeks that feels both exhilarating and exhausting—professional distance at work that involves Rory treating Henrik exactly like every other player she interviews, no special access or soft questions or lingering looks that might suggest personal involvement, and then stolen private moments outside work where they’re actually building something real, getting to know each other beyond the crisis and the chemistry, learning that Henrik stress-bakes when the team loses and Rory reorganizes her bookshelves when she’s anxious, that they both hate romantic comedies but love science fiction, that sex between them is just as good sober and with feelings as it was drunk and anonymous except now it means something beyond just physical release.
They’re careful about where they go—his apartment mostly, occasionally hers when Margot is traveling for photography assignments, never anywhere public where teammates or journalists might see them together in ways that look like dating instead of professional interaction.
Henrik comes over after games when the adrenaline is still high and he needs someone to talk to about mistakes he made on the ice or plays that worked perfectly, and Rory listens while he processes and offers perspective that’s informed by actual hockey knowledge instead of just supportive platitudes, and sometimes they have sex after and sometimes they just fall asleep tangled together while Henrik decompresses from the pressure of professional sports.
Rory goes to his place on off days and they cook together—Henrik teaching her Swedish recipes that involve more butter than any human should consume, Rory introducing him to Puerto Rican food her mother used to make when she was growing up—and they watch documentaries and argue about whether certain historical events would make good movie subjects and have slow, thorough sex that feels like they’re memorizing each other, learning what makes the other person gasp or smile or fall apart completely.
It’s good.
Better than good.
Almost perfect except for the constant awareness that they’re hiding, that discovery would complicate both their careers, that this suspended secret existence can’t last forever but for now it’s all they have.
“We should talk about what happens when people find out,” Henrik says one night in early November when they’re lying in his bed after sex that left them both breathless and slightly wrecked. “Because eventually someone’s going to notice. Lucas already knows something’s happening—he keeps making comments about me being in a good mood lately.”
“Let him speculate,” Rory says, tracing patterns on Henrik’s chest and trying not to think about the inevitable moment when their secret becomes public knowledge. “As long as he’s not confirming anything, it’s fine.”
“Is it though?” Henrik asks. “Keeping this hidden all the time? Never getting to actually be a couple outside of private spaces?”
“It’s necessary,” Rory says firmly, even though she’s starting to feel the strain of maintaining two completely separate versions of their relationship. “My career depends on credibility. If my editor finds out I’m sleeping with a player I cover, I get reassigned at best, fired at worst. We knew this would be complicated going in.”
“I know,” Henrik says, pulling her closer. “I’m not complaining. Just… missing you even when I’m seeing you. Missing being able to acknowledge you’re mine when other people are around.”
“I’m not yours,” Rory says automatically, defensive walls going up at the suggestion of belonging to someone after spending two years post-divorce reconstructing her independence.
“Bad phrasing,” Henrik corrects gently. “Missing being able to acknowledge that we’re together. That we chose each other. That this is real even if it’s secret.”
“It’s real,” Rory confirms quietly. “Secret doesn’t mean not real.”
“Good,” Henrik says, and he kisses her temple in a gesture that’s become familiar, comforting. “Because I’m falling in love with you. Just thought you should know.”
Rory freezes, her hand going still on Henrik’s chest, because they’ve been carefully avoiding that particular revelation even though it’s been obvious in the way they look at each other, touch each other, prioritize time together above everything else.
“You don’t have to say it back,” Henrik continues when Rory doesn’t immediately respond. “I just needed to tell you. So you know. Where I am with this.”
“I’m not ready to say it,” Rory admits, and she hates the vulnerability in her voice, hates that she’s still so damaged by Carlos that she can’t even admit feelings she definitely has. “But I’m… close. To being ready. To feeling brave enough.”
“That’s enough,” Henrik says. “For now. I can wait.”
They fall asleep like that—Henrik having confessed love, Rory having almost reciprocated—and Rory lies awake for a while after his breathing evens out into sleep, thinking about how she absolutely is falling in love with him, has probably been falling since the doctor’s appointment when he held her hand and promised to stay, definitely falling by the time he made her Swedish meatballs and listened to her talk about her childhood dreams without judgment.
She’s falling in love with Henrik Andersen.
And she’s terrified that admitting it will somehow jinx this fragile, perfect thing they’ve built in secret.
So she stays quiet.
Keeps the words locked away.
And hopes that eventually she’ll be brave enough to say them out loud.
🔥
END CHAPTER 9
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