2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
~DOMINIC~
The locker room stinks of sweat and body spray.
We’ve got a game in seventy-two hours, and they’re all more focused on my face plastered across the Yellow Pages than the upcoming playoffs.
Jace is laughing like a hyena—my hyena, unfortunately.
If he weren’t the best defenseman I’ve ever seen and my best friend, I’d have strangled him long ago.
Almost did last year, when I caught him with my little sister.
Steam hisses from the showers as I strip off my gear.
“Captain’s got a girlfriend,” Addams, one of our wingers, singsongs, towel slapping my ass as he passes.
Phones are lit up around the room and everyone’s grinning at the same set of grainy photos plastered across ESPN, Instagram, TikTok, and whatever else counts as news these days.
My face. Her face. My arm welded around her waist, and her hand twisted in my shirt.
“Didn’t think you were the type for PDA, Cap,” Tanner calls. “But with a girlfriend like that… I get it.”
I’ve spent years keeping myself clear of this exact circus. No women paraded in front of cameras. No puck-bunny dates. No blurry paparazzi shots in or outside clubs. I keep the women I fuck private and send them on their merry way before dawn. End of story. No headlines. No gossip.
And then Jess—fucking whatever—shows up, and now she’s everywhere.
I don’t even know what her last name is.
I know her mouth: pouty, perfect, glossed pink under the club’s neon light.
I know the way her hair framed her face when she tilted it up at me.
I know the shape of her body pressed tight to mine—curves and heat, legs that go on forever.
I didn’t catch the shade of her eyes under the strobe, but they were blue.
“My girlfriend,” I say, voice even as I strip the tape off my shin guards, “whom I apparently left in the middle of the club. Makes perfect sense.” Sarcasm drips with every bob of my chin.
Jace sits next to me and pats my knee. “Maybe it was a short-lived romance. Bathroom quickie?”
“Yeah,” I snort sharply. “Best two minutes of my life.”
That’s not my style, and they all know it. I’ve never been enthusiastic about a first-class ticket to the STD clinic.
The room erupts with half-laughs, half-oohs, while my mind replays the moment on loop.
To say I’m unsettled by the way she still clings to my memory would be an understatement.
The truth is, I took one look at her and I was gone.
I’ve never been caught like that by anyone in my life, and all it took was one touch, one look from this girl to have me breaking my no-public rule.
That thought terrifies me more than any playoff game.
One of the rookies shuffles over like he just struck gold, phone glowing in his hand. “Oh, but this one, Captain, this one’s priceless.” He shoves the screen in my face.
It’s a picture of me sliding the paper rose behind her ear, her wide eyes looking up at me.
The boys lose it—whistles and hoots bouncing off the walls.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, snatching the phone before he can yank it back.
“Hey!” The rookie flails after me, panic all over his face.
I hold the phone out at arm’s length, shoulder pinning him against the lockers like a bug on display. He squirms, red-faced, while I scroll with a thumb. “What else we got in here, kid?”
“Captain, seriously…”
“Couple selfies? Maybe a dick pic or two?” My voice booms across the locker room, a grin spreading across my face.
“Nothing!” The kid’s voice cracks, horrified.
“Microdick shots? Let’s show the boys what you’re working with, hm?” I tilt the phone like I’m about to put on a slideshow.
The locker room explodes; half the guys double over, and Jace shakes his head at me with amusement. Back then, he would’ve joined me—maybe even gone as far as pulling the rookie’s pants down. I guess love really does make you a better man. Or a boring one.
“Actually, let me get this live.” I open the camera, angling it toward the rookie.
“Captain, Jesus Christ!” The kid thrashes like a fish, but he’s not getting anywhere. I’ve got a hundred pounds on him, easy.
“Hold still,” I tell him. “I need a good angle. Lighting’s everything when you’re trying to make an inch look like two.”
The howl that goes up damn near rattles the ceiling. His face is crimson, sputtering every swear word he knows while I keep him caged against the lockers with one arm, phone dangling out of reach.
The door opens, and the head of our equipment manager pokes inside, looking around hesitantly before his eyes land on me. “Uh, Cap?” he calls, voice carrying over the racket. “Tinnie’s asking for you.”
Finally. I’ve been waiting for this since I saw my face all over the internet this morning. A PR circus like this doesn’t go away on its own .
“About time,” I mutter, straightening up. I let the rookie wriggle a second longer before tossing the phone back at his chest.
He clutches it, glaring up at me while the rest of the room cackles. I don’t miss the faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
I pass Jace, giving him a quick pat on the shoulder as I make my way out of the room.
The PR suite smells like overbrewed coffee and paper. Tinnie’s standing in the middle of the room while three of her people hover nearby with tablets.
“Dom,” she greets, all polite warmth. “Appreciate you coming in.”
“Anytime,” I say, dropping into the chair at the end of the table.
“You know we wouldn’t pull you in without good reason.”
I tug the towel off my neck and lean back, waiting.
The younger guy with the tablet glances at Tinnie like he’s not sure if he should speak.
“First off, congratulations,” Tinnie says, speaking for him. “That was one hell of a game last night.”
“Thanks,” I say flatly, leaning back in the chair .
“We’ve been tracking engagement.” Tinnie presses on. “Since last night’s win, numbers are up across the board. Website traffic, merch clicks, hashtag trends. There’s been a twenty percent spike overnight.”
“Twenty?” I raise a brow.
“Twenty-three, to be exact,” the younger guy chimes in, eager.
I sit back and let them pour the honey.
“We’re seeing new crossover interest,” he says, scrolling on his tablet. “Comments from non-sports accounts. Lifestyle bloggers. A few outlets picked up some user footage and did reaction pieces.”
I nod slowly. “And you needed me in here to say good job?”
Tinnie’s eyes flick toward her team. “We wanted to show you the traction. You’ve been consistent for years, but this feels like a moment. And if we’re smart about it, we can keep the momentum going into the playoffs.”
I drag a hand over my jaw and stare at the ceiling for a second, already suspecting where this is going. “Are you going to tell me what this is about, or keep using buzzwords? ”
“The girl,” Tinnie says, folding her hands on the table like we’re discussing budget cuts. “We need to talk about her.”
There it is.
She nods to the woman on her left and a screen lights up.
Just standard phone footage. It’s grainy and shaky—someone filming the VIP section of the club from a distance. I’m used to it.
I’m there, in frame, walking along the rope, halfway turned. And then she appears—blonde hair, red dress, and a slim hand shooting out to grab my arm.
The camera mic fuzzes with bass and background noise, but her voice cuts through: “There you are, babe! Took you long enough.”
The clip keeps playing. On screen, I don’t hesitate.
I look down at her and immediately slide my arm around her waist, the movement automatic.
The video cuts just when I pull her into me and plant a kiss near her jawline.
I sit back, jaw tight, staring at the frozen last frame.
It feels off—the way I remember it felt longer, slower.
The moment my eyes met hers, the world stopped moving.
I looked at her and it felt like we were locked in that space for a lifetime before I even touched her.
But now, on the screen? It’s three seconds, maybe four.
I look at her, I pull her in, and it’s done.
I can feel all their eyes on me.
“So,” Tinnie says carefully. “Anything you want to tell us?”
“No idea who she is.” I turn to them, blank-faced, like I didn’t just watch a video of myself betraying every line I’ve drawn around my personal life for the past few years.
“You don’t know her?” Tinnie raises a brow.
“I don’t.” I shake my head.
“She called you babe.” The woman with the tablet glances up, confused.
“She needed a prop, and I stepped in.” I shrug. “I was being polite.”
I reach for the water bottle left for me on the table, twist the cap, taking a long drink.
Tinnie leans back slowly. Her eyes never leave mine.
“Well,” she says, finally. “Whether you know her or not…the story’s already out there.”
“Then bury it.” I set the bottle down.
“That’s the thing, Dom.” She gives me a tight smile. “The whole world’s going crazy over it. There’s no burying it.”
“My teammates get seen with women hanging off them all the time.” I lean back, arms crossed. “Half the roster’s been filmed leaving clubs with two girls and a toothpick. Why is this different?”
“Because you don’t do this, Dom.” Tinnie exhales like she’s been waiting for that one. “You’re way too private. You’ve spent your entire career keeping the lines clean between hockey and your personal life. This is the first time people have seen you do something like this.”
“Okay,” I huff, not knowing why this calls for a meeting.
“She’s not just another girl, either,” Tinnie adds carefully. “Her name’s Jessica Brooks. She’s actually...kind of a big deal.”
“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. Oh, she’s a big deal, alright. One look from this girl and I was a goner. No one has ever done this to me in my thirty-two years on this earth .