The Hockey Enforcer's Obsession

Prologue

JETT

One Week Earlier

The reflection staring back at me through the steam-fogged mirror looks familiar though slightly worse for wear after all the traveling I’ve been doing—and will be doing in the coming weeks ahead.

My signature dark bob is flipped over in a dramatic side part to add volume without having to rewash, blow dry, and style it.

The winged eyeliner and mascara that usually take me less than a few minutes to apply now requires careful precision in order to salvage my second attempt.

It’s official: my days and nights are completely flipped and today is not my day, even with the early morning light filtering through the small window in my bathroom.

“Ugh, this is a disaster,” I mumble, leaning in and trying to resurrect not only my makeup but my hair with a whole lot of texturizing spray. Adding insult to injury, I catch the golden hoop earring I’ve just put in with my fingers, nearly yanking it out and causing me to let out a harsh breath.

This is me, Juliette Monroe, better known as Jett to friends, family, and in the digital arena, with a skill set as a content creator and social media manger known for polishing up-and-coming artists, rebranding businesses, and taking broken public images and creating a spin until they’re trending for all the right reasons.

On the tiled countertop, my laptop sits precariously balanced between my bottles of skin care and coffee mug. The sound is on, and a local sports podcast is playing a recent interview. This is what I do: I study my job, backward and forward, coming up with a plan and how to spin a narrative.

“Joining us today is the enforcer for the Houston Lonestars, and honestly, he’s been in the spotlight of the gossip magazines more than on the ice.

Rowdy ‘Bouch’ Bouchard, everybody. Rowdy, thanks for coming in,” a popular host who gets national coverage—good, bad, or indifferent—says way too enthusiastically for this time of the morning.

“Yeah, sure. It’s what I do,” a deep, raspy voice replies.

Rowdy Bouchard, the man whose image is currently a disaster, and my priority number one.

The interview is a standard fanfare. He answers questions about being a Houston Lonestar, saying all the right things the host wants to here, but I can hear the resistance and clipped indifference in his tone when asked something he doesn’t want to touch on.

I dip my brush into my eyeshadow palette, tap it on the lid, and sweep it along my lash line.

My goal this week is to find a way to put a spin on this guy on every social media platform imaginable.

Hockey players, athletes period, aren’t my usual clients, which means I have a lot of work ahead of me.

Rowdy isn’t his nickname. It’s his name and should also come with a damn warning label.

His last season with Houston, he racked up more penalty minutes than points, dropped the gloves every time an opposing player crossed the line with one of his teammates, and earned a reputation for turning cheap shots into full-blown fights.

He’s the guy who steps in when someone takes a run at the team’s stars, finished every hit with enough force to make an opponent think twice, and never backs down.

Needless to say, he was on the brink of a suspension, and the managers of the Lonestars’ patience was wearing thin, so the surgery he needed after an injury came at the right time.

It should have taken the limelight off him.

He should have been laying low, rehabilitating himself.

Instead, he’s been galivanting all over the globe, being seen with one celebrity after the other, and some of those celebrities didn’t mind the pictures that surfaced with white substances on a mirror.

“You had shoulder surgery after the season ended,” the host says, leaning into the microphone.

“The recovery has been, shall we say, scrutinized. Social media is having a field day with videos and pictures of you leaving a club last weekend. Some reporters are even claiming you aren’t focusing on rehabilitation for the upcoming season. Rowdy, what’s the real story?”

I pause before tossing my eye shadow palette into the sink and grabbing my mascara, then opening the tube and pushing the spooly in and out to get a good amount on it. I look from my reflection to the clip, the one that saw me hired me for damage control.

“The surgery is done.” Rowdy’s voice is calm, almost bored, totally unfazed by the media storm. “I’m doing the work. Physical therapy every day. This injury isn’t going to keep me down. I’m putting in the work, in this for the long game.”

“Yeah, maybe ‘putting in the work’ in a completely different kind of physical therapy,” I murmur, carefully applying the first coat to the top lashes.

His tagged photos are littered with blurred shots of him stumbling out of VIP lounges.

His idea of rehab clearly involves late nights out, bottle service, and very few early mornings.

“Putting in the work,” I snort, examining my lashes in the mirror.

“Right. The work of giving me a migraine before eight in the morning.”

I’d turn this off if I could, but this is part of my job, studying the raw material, because while the social media aspect tells a story, it doesn’t include all sides.

I move to my other eye, swiping the black mascara while blinking and pulling it up.

The video feed pauses on a high-resolution full-body shot from a recent team media day at the Lonestars facility.

“Damn.” The image fills the entire screen, and I freeze.

He was caught walking through the arena tunnel, completely candid, and even through a screen, the man is undeniably good-looking.

Tall, massive shoulders, and built with the lean powerful shape of a man who takes care of himself.

My eyes scan the monitor, taking in the details like a marketer assessing a product or a woman assessing a threat.

Thick, dark hair falls in an effortless flow of waves around a face carved from sharp angles.

A strong jawline that looks like it’s built to take a hit, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a dusting of stubble that only makes him look more rugged.

He’s objectively devastatingly handsome, but his eyes are the real threat: dark, steady, and intensely focused, they seem to take in everything through the lens of the camera without giving a single thing away.

Even dressed down, there’s something undeniably commanding about him that a filter couldn’t fake.

A fitted navy-short sleeve polo stretches tightly across his chest, buttons left open at the throat to reveal just enough skin to make a woman wonder what’s beneath.

His khaki slacks sit low on his hips, emphasizing his long legs and athletic build.

He’s a content creator’s and a public relations manager’s worst nightmare.

I can see the immediate appeal—raw, unchecked intensity is pure clickbait.

I’ve spent my entire life around men as good-looking as him, and even more so with my career.

And one thing is certain, my boundary line clear: I never, ever mix business with pleasure.

And Rowdy Bouchard is a high-stakes, career-defining deal that can take me to the next level.

“So, what’s the next step? Getting cleared by the league?” The interview audio continues to play in the background.

“Yeah. Cleared, then get back on the ice. I’m here to play hockey, not answer questions.” I reach out and slam the laptop lid shut, cutting off his voice.

“Well, you’re going to need more than a physical therapist and a miracle to fix your image before opening night, Bouch,” I say to my reflection, giving myself one last look.

My eyeliner is smudged, giving me more of a smokey than wing-tipped effect thanks to my unsteady hand.

My short dark hair is tousled, framing my face just right.

The layered gold chains sit flat against my white top, and I toss my black leather jacket over my shoulders to finish the outfit.

I look like a woman going to battle. All I need to do is somehow fix the narrative and do it fast.

I grab my phone and open the calendar app.

My face-to-face meeting with the Lonestars’ favorite bad boy is scheduled at the training facility a week from now.

This isn’t a disaster I can fix from behind the screen.

It’s going to take a solid game plan, and in order to do that, I need to head to my meeting with his coach first.

Rowdy Bouchard is about to learn that he isn’t the only one who knows how to control a crowd. And I’m only getting started.