Chapter 5
Avery
“Let me introduce you to the team properly,” Jennifer says, leading me through the maze of the PR department. “Friday was such a whirlwind, we barely had time for introductions.”
I follow her into the open workspace area. The department has an interesting layout. Senior staff like Jennifer, Matt, and I have individual offices that line the perimeter, but we also maintain desks in the collaborative open space for when we need to work directly with the team.
“Matt Ross, my deputy director,” Jennifer says, stopping at a corner desk where a dark-haired man in his thirties looks up from his computer. “Matt, this is Avery Carter, our new crisis management specialist.”
Matt stands and extends his hand. “Welcome to the madhouse. Heard you're taking on our most challenging client.”
I snort. “That’s one way to put it.” Controlling Liam is turning out to be what I imagine wrangling a pack of feral cats would be like.
“Matt handles our media relations,” Jennifer continues. “Former sports journalist, so he knows how reporters think.”
“Which means I know they're all vultures,” Matt says with a grin. “But useful vultures, if you handle them right.”
Jennifer moves us along to a workstation where a young woman with bright eyes and perfectly styled hair is scrolling through social media feeds on multiple monitors.
“Eliana Reynolds, our digital media manager. She keeps our players from saying stupid things on social media.”
“Most of the time,” Eliana says, standing to shake my hand. “Though your client makes it particularly challenging.”
Don’t I know that.
“Miles Wallace,” Jennifer says, stopping at another desk. “Community relations coordinator. He'll be your best friend when it comes to rehabilitating anyone's image.”
“Hospital visits and youth hockey clinics,” Miles says, shaking my hand. “Nothing makes the public forget bad behavior like seeing someone read to sick kids.”
“Cynical but effective,” I note.
“Liz Griffin, media relations assistant,” Jennifer continues, introducing a sharp-eyed woman in her mid-twenties who's fielding phone calls while simultaneously typing notes. She gives me a quick wave and points to her headset apologetically.
We move past a young man hunched over research materials. “Adrian Woods, our intern. Syracuse journalism major and walking hockey encyclopedia.”
Adrian looks up. “You're the one handling Nova? That's so cool. I mean, challenging. Professionally challenging.”
Jennifer gives him a look. “And finally, Claire Hicks, our administrative coordinator. She's been here longer than anyone and knows where all the bodies are buried.”
Claire, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and an organized desk covered in team photos, smiles warmly. “Welcome, dear. Jennifer's told us good things about your work in Chicago.”
“Thank you. I'm looking forward to working with everyone.”
“Any questions?” Jennifer asks as we head toward my office.
“Just one. How much autonomy do I have with my approach?”
“As much as you need. Just get results,” she says.
My office is exactly as I left it on Friday afternoon. The only decoration I have is my potted orchid that somehow survived the move from Chicago. I bought it when I moved into my first apartment.
It has survived moves, job changes, and relationship disasters. It’s proof to myself that I can maintain something long-term despite my history of relationships.
I set my coffee on the desk and open my laptop, immediately diving into the overnight coverage of Liam's All-Star Weekend disaster. Each headline makes my chest tighten with frustration and something more personal that I refuse to acknowledge.
The photos are brutal. Liam has his arm around a blonde at some rooftop bar. In another, he’s kissing a brunette at a nightclub.
I was a fool to think that night in Chicago meant anything to him. Sadie was right. I was just another conquest in an endless parade of women. The thought is humiliating. I acted like just another groupie.
Just like I did with Kai.
“Morning damage report?” Jennifer asks, walking into my office. She settles on one of my client chairs.
I blink away memories of Kai. This is what matters.
“Seventeen outlets picked up the story. I've got calls scheduled with Bauer and Nike this morning.” I turn my laptop screen toward her. “The Saturday night photos are the worst. He looks completely out of control in this one.”
Jennifer sighs, studying the image of Liam with his tongue down some woman's throat. “Have you heard from him?”
“No.” I pull up my crisis management checklist. “I'm drafting a statement emphasizing his charitable work, but I need him to cooperate on some positive PR opportunities.”
Jennifer shakes her head. “I'll have him come up here after morning practice.”
The Nike call goes about as well as a root canal. I spend twenty minutes reassuring their marketing team that this is an anomaly, not a pattern, while privately wondering if Liam can really change.
“Young hockey players look up to Novak,” their marketing director says, her voice tight with disapproval. “What message does this send?”
“That he's human and makes mistakes,” I reply, keeping my tone professional despite my growing frustration. “What matters is how someone rebounds from those mistakes. Liam has an exemplary record of community service.”
It's a lie. His community service record is nearly nonexistent, but I can fix that if he cooperates.
After I hang up, I stare out my office windows at the empty arena seating and try to figure out how to manage a client who seems determined to sabotage himself. And me.
I’m deep in thought when there's a knock on my door. Before I can respond, it flies open.
Liam stands in the doorway, still in his practice gear, hair damp with sweat. His attitude reads resigned. “Fine. Let's do this.”
The sight of him gets my heart racing. Even disheveled and clearly exhausted, he's magnetic. I hate that I’m reacting to him like this. “Close the door.”
He does, then slumps into the client chair Jennifer vacated an hour ago. “Go ahead. Tell me what a piece of shit I am.”
I finally look at him directly. “I'm not here to judge your personal life.”
“Right. Just my professional one.”
“Nike is reconsidering their endorsement deal,” I say, cutting straight to the consequences. “Bauer wants a meeting to discuss your brand alignment. Your agent has fielded calls from three other sponsors expressing concern.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Good. Maybe financial consequences will get through to him where common sense hasn't.
“Media day is Wednesday,” I continue, consulting my notes. “Every reporter will ask about this weekend. I need you prepared with appropriate responses that don't make the situation worse.”
“What kind of responses?”
“Humble. Apologetic. Focused on hockey and your commitment to the team.” I slide a folder across the desk. “I've drafted talking points. Memorize them.”
He opens the folder but doesn't read it. “It meant nothing.”
The statement confuses me. Is he talking about the endorsement deals? The media coverage?
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask.
“The whole weekend. It meant nothing.” His voice is flat, almost angry. “I went home alone both nights.”
Relief surges through me, immediately followed by irritation at myself. “It's none of my business who you take home. All I care about is your public image, and right now, that image is of someone who can't control himself.”
His expression shifts. He stands up slowly, moving around my desk. My office shrinks with Liam getting so close. But I’m not going to show him how much he’s affecting me.
I swivel my chair to face him.
“Is that right?” he asks, his voice dropping to that rough whisper I remember from Chicago.
Before I can respond, he's tilting my chin up with one finger, leaning down to capture my mouth with his. The kiss is rough and demanding, and so damn hot. My legs turn to mush.
Heat floods through me, and for a moment, I forget where we are, who we are. My lips part under his, and I feel him smile against my mouth.
Then he pulls back, leaving me breathless and wanting more.
“Still think I can't control myself?” he asks, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip.
I stare up at him, my heart pounding, my professional walls crumbling. “This can't happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because you're my client. Because I have a job to do. Because—”
“Because you're scared,” he finishes.
He's right. I am scared. Scared of wanting him, scared of being just another conquest, scared of losing control of a situation I was hired to manage.
“Get back to your chair,” I say in a harsh voice.
He studies my face for a long moment, then moves back to the client chair with that same swagger. As if he’s proved a point.
Focus.
I lick my still-tingling lips. Swallow roughly. “Wednesday’s media availability,” I say, opening the folder again. “Questions about your weekend will be inevitable. We address it briefly, acknowledge poor judgment, pivot to team goals and community involvement.”
“What community involvement?”
“The kind we're going to schedule.” I pull up my calendar with trembling hands. “Hospital visits, youth hockey clinics, charity events. We're going to make you look like a saint who had one bad weekend.”
He leans back in the chair, watching me with those dark eyes. “And what if I don't want to be a saint?”
“Then enjoy watching your career implode.”
The words come out harsh, but I'm rattled by that kiss and the way my body is still humming with awareness of him.
“Is that a threat?”
“It's reality. Your choice.”
We stare at each other across my desk, the air crackling with tension that's both professional and deeply personal. He's testing me, pushing boundaries, seeing how far he can go before I break.
But I don't break. I never break.
“The hospital visit is Friday at two PM,” I say, consulting my notes. “Wear something appropriate. Smile at the kids. Don't mention alcohol, women, or partying.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.” I close my laptop and look at him directly. “Don't kiss me in my office again.”
“What about outside your office?”
“Get out.”
Liam’s answer is a laugh that rings in my office, long after he’s left.