43. Sneak Peek
Chapter forty-three
Sneak Peek
How to Fake Date a Hockey Star
Chapter One
Josie
Istraighten my red blazer in the mirrored elevator, a confident woman staring back at me—an illusion. Runway Red lipstick: flawless. War paint for what comes next.
"Time to charm the dragon," I mutter, squaring my shoulders as the numbers tick upward.
The elevator doors slide open to absolute pandemonium. Cameras flash like strobe lights. Reporters shout over each other. The PR rep sags under the pressure.
"Is it true Mitchell threw the first punch?"
"Will this affect his endorsement deals?"
"Has the league issued a statement on possible suspensions?"
I stride forward, heels sharp against marble. This isn’t a press conference—it’s a feeding frenzy.
Two professional athletes with multi-million dollar contracts decided to settle their differences with fists instead of words.
At a charity event. With children present. The footage is already trending.
I slip past a cameraman, mentally cataloging the major outlets present. All the big ones. This mess has crossed from sports news to mainstream scandal.
But if I can flip this narrative…
I've spent three years building a reputation for handling difficult clients with impossible problems. But sports? That's the big leagues—literally. If I nail this, I can finally pitch myself as a specialized sports crisis consultant. The one who doesn't just clean up messes but prevents them.
No pressure. Just my entire career trajectory hanging on the next thirty minutes.
At the front, there he is—the infamous captain of the Firth City Dragons, Logan Beck.
Standing at the podium, he's even more imposing than on TV.
His massive frame dwarfs the microphone, arms crossed like steel barriers across his chest. The scowl seems permanently etched into his face.
His eye ticks with every question, scanning the crowd like the reporters planned this ambush together.
This is the team's beloved leader? He looks ready to murder someone with his bare hands. I wonder how he'll react when I tell him my plan for his image? But that is for later. First, we need to handle this press conference.
"Captain Beck, would you characterize this as a pattern of behavior for your team?" A reporter shouts.
Beck's knuckles whiten as he grips the podium. "What I'd characterize is—"
"Thank you everyone, we're going to reset the tone here." I move beside him, voice calm and firm as I guide the mountain of a man away from the mic.
His head whips toward me, eyes widening in surprise. He knew a PR consultant was on their way, but he clearly wasn't expecting little old me.
"I'm Josie Dale, representing Whitman PR. The Firth City Dragons appreciate your questions and concerns regarding yesterday's incident."
Half the reporters nod appreciatively at my professional tone. The others frantically flip through notebooks, trying to figure out who I am and why I've suddenly taken control.
"What we witnessed yesterday was unfortunately a case of passionate team defense coupled with miscommunication in a high-pressure environment.
" I smile into the camera. "Two dedicated athletes who care deeply about their sport had a momentary lapse in judgment that doesn't reflect the values of their organizations or the charitable cause they both support. "
Beck stares holes through me, but I stay focused. The tone in the room shifts—less frenzy, more control.
I finish my statement, fielding questions with practiced ease. The room's energy has thankfully turned into a more manageable chaos. That's when I feel it—a heavy hand on my elbow, gentle but insistent.
"We're done here." His voice rumbles like distant thunder as he guides me away from the microphones.
The moment we're behind the partition that separates the press area from the team offices, Logan Beck drops my arm like it's radioactive.
"Who are you?" His gray eyes with flecks of blue spark with challenge.
I switch on my professional mask. "I'm the one cleaning up your mess, Captain Caveman."
His jaw tightens. I smooth my blazer. "And to do my job, I needed to step in before you torpedoed your team's reputation further."
"You must be one of those PR reps that spins lies.
Are you planning on telling lies about me?
" He steps closer, and I realize just how massive he truly is.
Six-foot-four at minimum, shoulders that could block out the sun, and a stillness that's almost predatory.
He looks like he was carved out of a mountain—all hard edges and barely contained force.
"I reframe facts," I correct him. "Unless you'd prefer the headline 'Hockey Neanderthals Brawl at Children's Charity'?"
His scowl deepens, the scar above his right eyebrow whitening against his tanned skin. "I'm not a PR problem to be managed."
"Everything's a PR problem when you punch someone in front of cameras and crying children."
"Mitchell was—"
"I don't care if he insulted your mother and stole your lunch money." I hold my ground. "Your job is to play hockey. Mine is to make sure people still want to watch you do it."
For a second, something breaks through the scowl. Then it's gone.
"Just stay out of my way," he mutters.
"Impossible. I'm your new shadow until this blows over." I tilt my head. "Better get used to me, Captain."
His eyes lock with mine, electricity crackling between us like a downed power line—dangerous and impossible to ignore.
"Let me make something clear," he growls, voice low enough that only I can hear. "My team doesn't need some PR princess swooping in to—"
"Let me make something clearer." I step forward instead of back, closing the space between us. "You might be king of the ice, but in front of the cameras? That's my glittery kingdom. I can make anything sparkle."
His eyebrows shoot up, that scar stretching white against his skin.
"This isn't a negotiation," I continue, keeping my voice steady. "Your fist-first approach already cost your team thousands in negative press. Another outburst costs thousands more. Do the math, Captain."
His jaw tenses.
"Ah! There you two are." Coach McAllister strides toward us, flanked by the sweating PR rep. The coach's weathered face splits into what might generously be called a smile. "Beck, I see you've met Ms. Dale."
Logan crosses his arms. "We've been introduced."
"Good, good." Coach claps his massive hands together. "We'll talk through Josie's strategy for you tomorrow morning."
Logan's groan sounds like it's being dragged from the depths of his soul. "Coach—"
"I can't bail you out of it, son." McAllister's tone hardens just enough.
A smirk tugs at my lips. Logan notices, eyes narrowing—right as a gravelly voice calls out, "Cap’s met his match."
I turn to see an older player lounging against the wall, compression sleeves on both knees. Zeke Landry, veteran player. He's almost up for retirement, according to the roster I memorized. "Better watch it, Cap. She's got more bite than you."
Logan ignores him completely, keeping those stormy eyes fixed on me.
I wink at Zeke. "And sharper teeth."
The older player barks out a laugh while Logan's scowl deepens.
"I'll see you tomorrow morning, Captain," I say, adjusting my blazer. "Seven A.M. sharp. We can talk about my strategy, and the press tour we get to take."
I turn on my heel before he can respond, feeling his glare between my shoulder blades as I walk away.
Outside, I slide into my car and pull out my phone, texting my boss Vanessa:
"Initial impressions: hotheaded hockey hero. Zero charm. I'm going to fake date him into the fan favorite."
***