Chapter 1
The Plan
Sofie
The Bridgeview Hotel is posh, the suites are lavish, the kind of luxury people gasp over when they see it on socials. Gold fixtures, river views, marble counters. Sophisticated. Beautiful. High-end. Whatever.
I don’t blink. Money stopped impressing me before I could spell it. Such a privileged thought, and I know that makes me seem like a bad person to others, but it was my reality. Was my reality.
Claudia walks out of the bedroom after putting Savannah down for her nap and sits across from me on the couch.
That is what impresses me. A woman who pulled herself from nothing and became something.
Her hair is somehow perfect. Her shirt is unwrinkled.
She is balancing motherhood, a doctoral-level career as the team psychologist, and a brand-new engagement, as if it were light work.
Deacon stands behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder.
He looks relaxed in a way that is new. I’ve followed his career for years, and although he’s the veteran, the oldest and most unshakable, he now somehow looks more relaxed than I have ever seen him.
He used to come into PR meetings with the charisma of a movie star and the emotional availability of a brick wall. Now he’s softened. Settled. In love.
Claudia did that. Three months, and she flipped his whole world.
She and I met then, too, and I liked her immediately. When I found out she was a KET, I liked her even more. No warm-up period, no small-talk phase. Just clicked. KET girl energy recognizes KET girl energy. I would hide a body for her. Thankfully, this is not a body-hiding situation yet.
“Ready to become the hockey world’s favorite couple?”
Claudia glances up at Deacon, and he winks as he squeezes her shoulder as he answers. “We are.”
“The footage from the proposal at Icehouse is where we start.” I smile as I pull my laptop from my bag.
“Did you get it before or after all hell broke loose with Sterling’s sister?” Deacon chuckles.
Deacon gave me a heads up, knowing it was a great PR moment, so I had a small team filming the incident? In the ultimate example of pots calling kettles black, Briar Sterling overheard one of the bunnies calling Claudia a puck bunny and went off. “In Briar's defense, she didn’t turn it physical.”
“As far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t need a defense either way,” Deacon says as he rounds the couch and sits beside Claudia.
“We were able to edit it all out.” I open my laptop. “I’ll airdrop you both the footage.”
“Has it been posted yet?” Claudia asks.
“I wanted you to approve it first because this was raw and real,” I say as I hit the arrow. “The rest will be staged, and I won’t ask.”
I watch them watch the whole thing, the guys all entering and removing their coats or suit jackets, exposing their wives' last names as they head to the unofficially official team area in the back of the pub.
Their toasts. And then Deacon removed his jacket with Holloway on the back, and then the proposal.
I watch Deacon close his eyes slightly as if saying a silent thank you to God, and yep, I fall a little more in love with them as a couple.
“So. Engagement is locked. Now we craft the narrative knowing Kyle and Emma are watching. They’re image-obsessed. They won’t risk stepping into a story that the entire hockey world is obsessed with.”
Claudia nods, “We agreed no discussion about paternity.”
“Correct,” I say. “We do not hint or confirm. We let the world see you as what you are. A beautiful working mom with an infant. A psychologist respected by her team and Deacon’s partner. That alone is untouchable.”
Deacon sits beside her. “So, what do we do first?”
I turn my screen so they can see my digital vision board. “Date nights. Warm lighting. You two being adorable but private. No statements, no interviews. Just the visual of a couple who are deeply in love and living their lives.”
Claudia glances at him out of the corner of her eye, and he nods. “That is easy enough.”
“And then,” I say, flipping to the next one, “we bring in Paul Bronski.”
Claudia’s eyebrows lift. “You think he would want to be involved?”
“Paul is eighty-five, a hockey legend, and he loves you. You two share the foster care background. He has all but claimed you.”
Deacon chuckles. “He has.”
“That is not what I asked,” Claudia says sweetly. “It may be too much for him.”
“Bronski is PR gold. You two having him as found family? That is the kind of narrative people fight to protect. It makes your engagement look like fate. Like healing. Like stability. Sponsors love that. Fans love that. And Kyle and Emma will not want to touch that with a ten-foot pole.”
Claudia exhales slowly. She looks relieved, scared, and hopeful all at once. “This could really work.”
“It will work. I do not deal in hypotheticals.” I state firmly. “And the holiday rollout will seal everything. With Deacons ‘secretive Santa giving’s, the Bears' annual holiday events. Toy drives. Paul, in a Santa hat, holding Savannah. You two giving back. That narrative becomes your armor.”
“I’d hate for it to be twisted as me being an opportunist.” She all but whispers.
Deacon wraps an arm around Claudia. “It protects our family.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You two are the story. You just needed someone to package it.”
Claudia reaches for my hand. “Sofie… thank you.”
I squeeze her hand gently. “We met three months ago, and you became one of my people. KET girls stick together. Also, I love hockey, so this is fun for me.”
Deacon grins at that. “Then let’s do it.”
“Oh, we are doing it,” I say, closing my computer. “I need your calendars, your patience, and at least a promise of excellent Thanksgiving dinner pictures with your families.”
“Of course.” Deacon nods.
“Oh, and one more thing,” I say as I stand to leave. “I want a Christmas Eve wedding.”
“What?” Claudia gasps, but I do not turn and address this.
“We’ll talk at the game.” I open the door. “Love yous.”
The elevator doors close, and I get thirty seconds of silence.
Thirty seconds when I do not have a call to answer or a meeting to schedule or reschedule.
Tonight, I get to pretend I’m not owned by everything around me; I get to go to a game with my friends and do something ‘normal’.
Then tomorrow is ‘No Fucks-given’ and the realization that this is the second year I have called it that.
Why? Because, regardless of what I do to try to make the holiday special, my siblings will undoubtedly give no fucks, and I will have given more than they deserve.
Yet still…
The elevator dings, slows to a stop, and the door slides open.
Six foot five. Two hundred forty pounds of bruised, stupidly hot, trouble.
Collar length, dark blond, thick waves pushed back like he just ran a hand through them.
Blue eyes too bright for the lighting. One hand shoved into his jacket pocket.
Lip split. Knuckles bruised. Shirt rumpled.
Post bar fight glow like he is fresh out of a cage match.
Number 21, right defensive man for the Brooklyn Bears, Aleks Kilovac.
He steps in, lip-twisting in the corner, that cocky kind of smirk that’s hot enough to trigger a migraine.
“Rough night, AK? Get lost?”
Aleks presses the elevator button. “Why? They send you to come look for me?”
“No,” I say flatly as I take him in again against my better judgment. “How did you end up here and not at the Puck Pad where you live?”
His eyes lock on me, and I swear he’s visually undressing me with no shame or effort. Like he knows exactly what he looks like and exactly what women think when they see him.
He smirks again. “Nope.”
“Nope?”
“Nope, I did not go home.”
“Obviously,” I say. “You look like you crawled out of a bar fight and chased a bad decision.”
“Bad decision was the bar fight,” he says, flexing his bruised hand. “Everything after was great.”
I raise a brow. “Do I want to know?”
A slow grin spreads across his stupidly perfect mouth. “Let’s just say all my boo boos got kissed, sucked, or fucked away.”
“Charming.” I roll my eyes because someone must maintain standards in this elevator, and it is clearly not him.
He shrugs. “I try.”
“You really do not.” A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
He laughs too. Deep and low, the elevator begins its descent. His laugh holds a kind of sound that probably ruins mentally stable women on a weekly basis.
The doors slide open, and the air outside the Bridgeview is crisp. My driver, James, has already pulled up. I step out, and Aleks falls into stride beside me.
“They are going to think we were together, you know,” he says casually.
“As if.” I scoff, tossing my hair instead of acknowledging the tiny spark in my stomach at the idea.
He parrots me, right on my heels as I walk toward the car. “As if.”
The way he says it. Mocking but warm and standing far too close. Like he was figuratively tapping the exact nerve that set my internal spiral over… nothing.
I slide into the backseat and shut the door harder than necessary.
After sliding into the driver's seat, James gives me a quick, polite glance in the mirror before he pulls away from the curb.
I stare out the window at the skyline, trying to shake the feeling of Aleks' voice —that deep bravado with his rich Russian accent that’s seriously so damn hot— chasing me all the way to Midtown.
It is ridiculous. Infuriatingly so. And I hate that it lingers like it is.
Like static beneath my skin. Like something humming at a frequency I do not want to admit I can feel.
I want to pretend I do not know why it unsettles me, but that would be a lie I tell myself, and I do not make it a habit to do that.
You need to go on a date, try to at very least pretend you have time to date so that you can feel that… spark, or if not a spark, at least a flutter, not brought on by your ‘special little friend’ who lives in your nightstand.
I do not have the luxury of thinking about this shit, let alone actually acting on it.