Chapter 1
nico
New York City: Present Day
I walked into the conference room at HFNA headquarters and immediately wanted to turn around.
The space was all glass and steel, a corporate showroom designed to intimidate.
Executive types in suits lined one side of a long table, while players sat on the other.
Arnold Gasser, the league’s new commissioner, presided at the head like a disappointed principal.
Fuck me. The only empty seat was next to Kirby Paquette.
Seven years, and I still remembered the blood, rage, and humiliation. The memories were as sharp as ever.
Yet there he was, sprawled in his chair as if he owned the room, taking up more space than he needed. He’d tilted his head, and his wavy hair caught the fluorescent light. I hated noticing any of it, and my stomach tightened before I could remind myself how badly things had ended.
I shook my head and tried to focus. The email about this mandatory meeting had been vague: “select players only,” with no details.
When I asked the Condors’ GM, he said he knew nothing.
They never pulled players away from their teams in February unless someone had fucked up or a catastrophe was brewing.
Looking at the grim faces around the table, I guessed it was the latter.
I slow-walked to the empty chair and sat down.
Packy didn’t look at me, which was fine because I didn’t want to see him either.
But I could smell him. His cologne was woodsy and probably expensive, nothing like the cheap shit he used in college.
Pushing the thought aside, I looked toward the front of the room.
Packy finally glanced over, and his big smile vanished as soon as he saw me.
His eyes went wide, almost comically. We stared at each other while he cycled through more emotions than I could keep up with.
Then he covered them with the same smug grin he’d perfected back in Michigan. I wanted to rearrange his face.
“Don’t worry,” he said, voice dripping with false sweetness. “I showered. Just for you.”
His words hit hard. Of course he remembered the stupid exchange after our very first practice freshman year. I told him he smelled like a gym bag, and he laughed so hard he almost fell off the bench. Back then, we were friends, and noticing everything about him didn’t hurt.
“You did?” I asked. “Too bad it didn’t wash off the stench of Buffalo.”
“You are unbelievable.” His fake grin sharpened into a mean one. “Seven years later, and you’re still glaring at me. Adorable.”
“Seven years later, and you’re still breathing. Tragic.”
He balled his hand into a fist, and I thought he might hit me right in front of the commissioner. Part of me wanted him to, because at least that would be honest. It would prove he still felt something other than his infuriating smugness.
“Relax.” He uncurled his fingers one by one. “I won’t mess up your ugly face until the next time we meet in a game.”
“Fuck you,” I said. “I nearly killed you in October.”
“Fuck you. You’re the one who hobbled off the ice with blood on your face.”
I gripped the arms of my chair so hard my knuckles went white. “Keep it up, you snot-nosed little shit, and I’ll finish what I started in the locker room at college.”
The words were out before I could stop them, and Packy froze. Something raw flashed in his eyes before he hid it again.
“Gentlemen.” Gasser’s voice cut through the room. “If Paquette and Rossi can stop fighting for a few minutes, we’ll get started.”
Laughter erupted around the table. Blake Conti, sitting on my other side, nudged me with his elbow. “Already making friends, I see.”
Packy held out a hand toward the commissioner. False charm and easy confidence had always gotten him anything he wanted and saved us from trouble more times than I could count. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Please continue.”
“Yeah, don’t mind us,” I added, unable to stop myself. “Packy’s just being an ass, as usual.”
Gasser’s face turned bright red. Blake leaned close and whispered, loud enough for Packy to hear, “Sounds like love language to me.”
Packy and I both glowered at him. While I mouthed “fuck off,” Packy said it out loud.
Well damn. This was the first time we’d agreed on anything since the day I put my fist through his face. Everything went to hell after that fight, and he walked away like the previous two years had meant nothing.
“First, congratulations to everyone who participated in the All-Star events last weekend,” Gasser said. “It was proof that the HFNA has the best hockey players in the world. Good job.”
Most of the players in the room had been there, and everyone started joking and congratulating themselves.
After a moment, Gasser raised his hand. “All right. I’m on a tight schedule, so I’ll be blunt.” He paused as the air in the room thickened. “You are here because the Hockey Federation of North America is close to collapse. Total shutdown.”
His words made the room go silent. Chairs creaked, and someone swore under their breath. Beside me, Packy sat up straight, his smug look gone.
“Attendance and revenue have been trending downward for years,” Gasser said. “But last month, Continental Sports Network triggered the early-termination clause in our broadcast agreement.”
“Jesus,” Fox Painter from Montreal said. “The whole thing?”
“They’re threatening to walk away mid-season. On March first, less than four weeks from now.”
Gasps and incredulous curses filled the room. CSN was the national TV deal in the US, the thing that kept half the league’s teams afloat. Without it, we’d be fucked.
“Their board claims we’re underperforming across every key metric.” Gasser’s jaw worked before he went on. “Ratings, social engagement, and brand recognition among younger viewers. They used the phrase ‘cultural irrelevance.’”
“Well, that’s not insulting at all,” someone said.
“If CSN pulls out,” Gasser said, “six teams go bankrupt within thirty days. Several more within sixty, and even more by the time the playoffs are over. With too few teams to schedule a season, the league folds. That’s the reality.”
My stomach twisted. The Condors were based in New York City, so we’d probably survive financially. Still, without many teams to compete against, we’d be done. No league meant no contract, no paycheck, and no career.
Hockey was everything to me. It was the only thing I was ever good at, the only place I belonged. After my parents died, the Condors became my family. My teammates were like brothers, and I couldn’t handle losing them.
Eddie Spivak from Seattle leaned forward. “So we’re already fucked?”
“Not yet.” Gasser’s smile was thin. “We’ve negotiated an eight-week extension on the condition that we execute an aggressive engagement initiative. CSN wants what they call ‘high-profile human faces of the league’ in front of cameras and fans. Immediately.”
“They want us to have personalities,” Fox said. “I thought that was against the rules.”
A few people laughed because Fox had a point. Most of us had been taught since junior hockey to give boring interviews so we didn’t say anything controversial.
“They want authentic connection,” Gasser corrected. “Stories, personalities, viral moments, fan outreach, community events… You name it. Proof that this league still matters to people outside the arenas.”
“In other words, they want sensitive, modern-day athletes,” Fox said. “No more acting like we don’t live in the real world.”
Gasser nodded. “Exactly. Less old-school, tough-guy posturing, and more openness. Less toxic masculinity, more of the men you are off the ice. CSN says that’s what fans respond to, and it’s what sponsors want. I see their point.”
As an openly gay man playing in a league that had spent decades pretending people like me didn’t exist, I couldn’t argue with the principle.
Although gay and bi players were pretty common now, I’d seen enough toxic bullshit to last a hundred lifetimes.
And hell, if being visibly queer could save the league, I’d have to help.
Packy glanced at me, then looked away.
“We’ve had outreach initiatives before,” Gasser went on, “but they’ve been small compared to what we have to do now.”
“Can’t we wait until after the season?” someone called out.
Gasser shook his head. “We can’t even wait another week.”
“What does that mean for us?” Eddie asked. “We’ve already got jobs.”
“It means you’re about to start moonlighting.”
Great. Thinking about being in front of cameras and fans made me tired. As the Condors’ captain, I could handle people when I needed to, but it always wore me out. The idea of forced PR made my skin crawl.
“You are now HFNA Outreach Ambassadors,” Gasser said.
“We’ve paired you into five duos, and together you’ll make appearances, do live webcasts, and take part in community events.
Whatever it takes. The goal is much more important than any you’ll be scoring on the ice.
Saving the league requires expanding the fan base, increasing engagement, and repairing our public image. ”
Players groaned, but the suits on the other side of the table sat up straighter. Their fake smiles looked forced.
“This is going to be a nightmare,” Blake whispered. “I can’t stand cameras.”
“You and me both,” I said.
Gasser raised his voice to be heard. “Before you panic, let me clarify the logistics. You won’t be pulled off your teams for weeks because we’ve constructed a travel grid around your game schedules.
Most appearances will happen on days off, between home stands, or in the mornings before evening games.
Your first PR trips will be quite soon, based on how your pair’s game schedules look. ”
“You will be fucking with some of our games, though?” Eddie asked. “Right?”
Gasser’s nostrils flared. “Only occasionally. We’ve capped game absences to one every two weeks.” He checked his watch. “And let me remind you that if we don’t do this, there will be no more games to miss. All of us will be out of a job.”
The room went quiet because we knew he was right. If the choice was missing a few games or watching the league die, I knew what I’d choose. But since I was captain and centered our first line, missing even one game meant letting down the guys who counted on me.
Blake piped up for the first time. “How will team management feel about this?”
“The team owners are the league’s board of directors,” Gasser said. “They want to keep the league going for obvious reasons, so all of them have signed off on this. Don’t worry about your management.”
I couldn’t tell if I was relieved or annoyed.
Gasser glanced at his watch again. “You’re probably wondering why we chose you. The analytics department built player profiles based on social media engagement, fan polling, past outreach performance, and projected appeal to target demographics. You all scored in the top one percent.”
“Because we’re the hottest guys in the league,” Fox said, and the tension cracked. Even Gasser’s mouth twitched.
“Some of you are stars in your markets or have compelling personal stories,” Gasser continued. “Others test well with key demographics we need: younger fans, women, the LGBTQ+ community. Fans respond to relationships, which is why we have you in pairs. They need to see you as friends and partners.”
I looked down the table at the other players. Friends and partners? We spent most of the year trying to destroy each other on the ice.
“The assignment begins now and lasts through the end of the regular season,” Gasser said. “If we hit CSN’s engagement targets, the contract and sponsors stay, and the league stabilizes. If we don’t…” He spread his hands. “Well, you do the math.”
Months of fake smiles and small talk. Jesus Christ, I wouldn’t have any energy left to play hockey.
Gasser smoothed his tie. “I’m late for another meeting, but my colleagues will get you organized and answer questions. Joel Preston oversees development, but your primary contact will be his assistant, Marissa Helms. She’ll coordinate travel and events.”
A woman at the far end of the table raised her hand and gave us a little wave.
“I know this isn’t what you signed up for,” Gasser said, “but it’s how we save our jobs. Thank you for your cooperation, gentlemen.”
The room burst into a dozen conversations at once. While some guys argued, I leaned back and tried to figure out what this would mean for me. I’d do anything to keep from losing my career and the family I’d found.
At least I’d probably get paired with someone tolerable. Blake, maybe, or Fox. Hell, I could work with anyone if I had to.
Well, anyone except Packy. We wouldn’t last a day before they found us both dead.