“The pills are allergy meds—I had a pharmacist check the shape. The girl is your cousin—I ran her face through a search. And the wall?” Lena paused, a rare flicker of softness in her voice. “That’s just a kid who didn’t know how to ask for help yet. Own it.”
“You’re Cassian Bravo. You have sixteen million followers. In one hour, you’re going to post a picture of yourself right now. No makeup, no filter, sitting on your sad beige couch in that ratty hoodie. And the caption is going to be: ‘Bodycheck pics? Here’s a real one. Yeah, I’ve been messy. Yeah, I’ve been sad. But I’m still here. And nobody—nobody—extorts my family.’ ”
She smiled and typed back: “Just pay your invoice. And next time, don’t take mirror selfies in a rage-room.” bravo bodycheck pics
“We’re not denying it,” Lena cut him off. “Denying makes it real. We’re going to flood the zone.”
“Flood the zone?”
“My ex-trainer, Rusty. I fired him three months ago for leaking my game-day schedule to a betting ring. He said this is just ‘a taste.’ He wants two million by tomorrow or he sends the whole set to Barstool, TMZ, and my girlfriend’s father.”
“They’ll respect you,” Lena said. “While you’re doing that, I’m calling the FBI. Rusty crossed state lines with those images—that’s interstate extortion. I already have his IP from the email.” “The pills are allergy meds—I had a pharmacist
The "bodycheck" was a cruel pun. On the ice, a bodycheck was a legal, bone-rattling hit. Off the ice, it was the takedown someone had just launched.