Chapter 12 Cole
Cole
“Hey, loser,” my sister yells at me at full volume.
A couple passing by on the street turn their heads to stare, but Jess is unbothered. She ducks out of her car, slamming the door behind her. It’s a bright, cold day in Boston; the brilliant blue sky above us makes it look warmer than it really is.
“Hey yourself, dork.” I pull Jess into a quick hug. My family are the only people who get a hug out of me. And that’s only some of them. And only sometimes. “Who are you calling a loser, anyway? New England’s on a winning streak.”
My little sister grins at me. She’s back down from Maine for another couple of days, staying with me. This time she’s going apartment hunting before she makes the move and starts her internship.
I volunteered to help her look at the apartments.
Because I’m a supportive big brother.
And also just slightly because I’m worried about her making this move, and I want to do anything I can to gain some control over the situation and my feelings.
Just slightly that.
Three apartment viewings later, Jess is mad at me.
“It was cozy,” she says insistently, leaning against the wall outside the last building we toured.
“It’s a box. A box in a shitty neighborhood.”
“You hate everywhere we’ve looked at. You said the first place was too loud—”
“It was right by that nightclub.”
“—and you said the other tenants at the second one”—she crooks her fingers in irritated air quotes—“seemed like they were in a cult.”
“They were all wearing the same shirt,” I argue, grasping at straws.
“Yeah, they were all wearing white t-shirts. Everyone owns a white t-shirt. It’s not exactly giving Jonestown.”
It’s not that I’m trying to discourage her… It’s just that I look at her face—healthy, eyes bright, vibrant and sarcastic and opinionated—and remember so clearly what it looked like that night. Her hollow cheeks, eyes closed, skin gray. The slow beeps of the monitor next to her hospital bed.
I don’t want anything to throw her off her recovery.
“Okay, fine. I’m being difficult. But you know…
” My words are slow, as if she won’t notice what I’m suggesting if I say it as casually as possible.
“I can help with it. You could have your own place. Just say the word. Then you won’t have to deal with shitty roommates and noisy neighborhoods and cults. ”
The thing is, I could outright buy my sister five apartments if she wanted. But this is an argument we’ve had before, so I know where it’s going. Still, I have to try at least.
She rolls her eyes, somewhere between affectionate and exasperated. “You earned all that money, Cole. It’s cool as hell that you did that. But I’ve got to do my own thing too. After the last few years, renting my own room in the city is going to feel like such big progress.”
I run a hand over the stubble on my jaw, trying not to let my frustration break through.
Jess is stubborn. Principled. I’m proud of her for that. But what the hell is the point in making money if I can’t help out my family?
And, as Jess loves to point out, I don’t have a girlfriend in my life to spend the money on.
I open my mouth, but Jess interjects.
“Nope. Don’t say another word. If you’re about to offer me your spare room permanently—and I say this with literally so much love—go fuck yourself.”
I burst out laughing. “Yeah, okay, fair. We’d probably kill each other within a month.”
“Love you, dude, and I’m grateful that you’re letting me stay with you while I’m in Boston. But I need my own space.” She pauses, her smile settling into a look of concern. “I know this is tough on you. But you’re… overcompensating. Just be here. That’s more than enough. You know that, right?”
My throat tightens. “Yeah,” I answer. “Sure.”
But in my gut, I can’t accept that it’s true. I should’ve been there for Jess, should’ve been there for the whole family. Should’ve been there to notice she was struggling. I can’t let it happen again.
Jess checks her phone. “I’ve got one more viewing later today. You said you have to leave soon, right?
“Yup.”
“What, do you have a date or something?”
She throws the question out there innocently. Yeah, right. Innocent my ass. Jess is dying for the day I finally have a serious girlfriend to bring home. Probably so she can just befriend her and talk shit about me with her, but still.
“Same answer as always,” I grunt. “No.”
There is a woman on my mind. But not one I’m dating.
I’ve been trying extremely hard not to think about Cassie barging into the Nor’easters locker room to yell at me. I’m also not thinking about her in that storage room, how her eyes seemed to linger on my shirtless body for a moment.
Look, people with big egos irritate me. But I can recognize that my body looks good. Hell, I’ve done enough brutal workouts over the years. It better look good.
But most of all, I’m not thinking about my comment to her before she left the arena.
I give women a hell of a lot more than seven minutes.
I should be irritated with myself for that. But whispering that in her ear, all low and dirty, was the most fun I’ve had in months.
I’d just agreed to remember we’re a team. I don’t want to overstep a boundary. But I couldn’t stop myself. Just like how I can’t stop thinking about the look on her face when I said it… There was some flicker of something not professional underneath her expression.
Jess narrows her eyes at me. “You’re hiding something.”
“What? No.”
“I’m right. I can feel it. You like a girl.”
“This conversation is idiotic.”
“Who is she?” Jess demands.
“There is no ‘she’,” I insist. “I’m busy with hockey and trying not to get traded right out of New England. And speaking of that”—I glance at my watch—“I’ve got to go.”
“So if it’s not a date, what is it? Practice?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “Long story. Pissed off a sponsor. Have to go do a social media commercial photoshoot for them as penance.”
Jess gawks at me for a full three seconds, then starts laughing like crazy.
She hasn’t caught her breath by the time I leave.
“I’m not a fucking influencer.”
“I heard you the first three times,” Cassie replies chipperly. “But if you hadn’t gotten pissed off at the big exec, then you wouldn’t have to be doing this.”
We’re at a brightly lit studio, waiting for this torture session to begin.
Though I majorly pissed off Sterling and my public image is on the rocks right now, they’re still keen to have me take part in this ad campaign they’re doing with athletes at the top of the game. Partly because I’m doing it for free.
“Just get through it and forget about it,” Cassie instructs. “I’ve reviewed their questions. It’s all softball stuff. Get a nice photo, and then it’ll be over. Feud with Sterling put to bed. Sound good?”
“Got it, boss,” I deadpan. “Don’t worry. I won’t cause a scene.”
A crew member comes over and thrusts a few hangers of clothes into my hand.
I stare down at it. “What’s this?”
“Your shoot outfit,” she says, like it’s obvious.
Grumbling, I go to get changed because apparently the hoodie and sweatpants I wore today aren’t up to the internet’s standards. They’ve given me some designer shit: a loose black t-shirt and jeans.
Cassie wolf-whistles as I stride back out to the studio. “Damn, Taylor, you clean up nice.”
I give her a death-stare. She’s having way too much fun at my expense. “Can agents get fired for sexually harassing their clients?
Her pretty blue eyes glint. “I thought you were Rick’s client, not mine.”
I grunt out a laugh. “Well, in that case, go ahead, sunshine. If you want to tell me something dirty as hell, now’s your chance.”
I catch a slight flush touch her cheeks. “No.”
Her voice comes out a little hoarse.
Fuck, that’s satisfying.
A crew member hands me a hockey stick and directs me to sit on the chair in the middle of the backdrop. Why the fuck would I be wearing jeans and holding a hockey stick?
The photographer starts clicking away as the interview begins. “So, Cole, what do you do in your spare time?”
“I play hockey.”
He laughs. He’s under the mistaken impression that I’m joking. “No, I mean, outside of the Nor’easters, what do you do? People on socials go crazy for this kind of stuff. You know, getting to know the players.”
I don’t want anybody to get to know me. But I don’t point that out.
What do I do? I’ve always been a bit of a lone wolf. I’m happy to get dinner with my teammates, then go home to drink an herbal tea and throw on an old movie. Solo. Once in a while, I hit up a bar and take home some woman for something uncomplicated. But it’s been a while since I’ve done that.
In fact, since Jess’s overdose, I’ve spent most of my free time driving back and forth to Maine, trying to make sure I’m there for my family.
But like hell am I going to tell the interviewer any of that.
“When I’m not playing hockey,” I grit out, “I think about hockey.”
The interviewer wisely moves on to the next question, while the photographer circles, clicking away.
“Okay, fabulous,” the photographer says. “Very nice brooding hockey player thing. But how about a bit less ‘scary goalie facing down an opponent’ vibes, and more ‘relaxed, smiley, enjoying life’ vibes?”
I catch Cassie very unsubtly covering her mouth with her hand, trying not to show that she’s giggling at this interaction. She knows that trying to get me to smile on cue is a difficult task.
I stare back at the photographer. “I am relaxed.”
“Sure… But maybe a bit happier? Give us a smile.”
I grit my teeth. “I am smiling.”
“Well, could you smile a bit more… visibly?”
My expression must darken because Cassie raises a hand. “Could we take five, please?”
The photographer lowers the camera, and Cassie swiftly pulls me aside to where the crew can’t hear us.
“Cole, do I have to say it?” she whispers. “We’re here to make amends. Trust me, I hate being told to smile as much as the next woman, so I sympathize. But let’s not upset the sponsor even more.”
Damn it. She’s right. “I know, I know. I’m being an asshole.”
She pauses, then shakes her head. “I was actually thinking that I kind of admire you for your boundaries. Sometimes I think I’m too nice.”
I frown. “Doesn’t being all… rainbows and sunshine come naturally to you?”
“Yes and no.” Her shoulders lift in a shrug. “I truly believe life is better and happier when you embrace positivity and optimism. But sometimes I really have to force myself to be that way.”
I try not to let the surprise show on my face. It’s hard to believe there’s anything cold or difficult beneath her sweetness.
“Fine. I’ll answer their questions.”
It feels like Cassie’s attitude has started to rub off on me.
It’s warm in the sun’s glow. Even the coldest blocks of ice melt under sunlight.
But maybe to her, being around me feels more like nightfall in the depth of New England’s winters.
Cold, bleak, brutal.
“Ready to go,” she calls to the interviewer, and the photographer steps back up.
“Great,” the interviewer beams. “So, Cole. Who’s your favorite teammate?”
I don’t give a fake grin. But I do answer his questions.
I tell them about Miller, Landon, and Roman. I tell them about how the rocky shoreline of Maine is my favorite place on earth. All the while, the photographer darts around, the click of the camera filling the room.
“This is all great stuff,” the interviewer says. “Now… you mentioned growing up in Maine. Tell me about your family.”
My fingers tighten around the hockey stick. I shrug, nonchalant. “Not much to say.”
“This campaign is all about what matters most to you. We’d love to hear a bit about why your family is so important to you.”
I shake my head. “I keep my family out of the media. That’s final.”
The interviewer’s smile widens, as if he’s caught the scent of blood in the water. It’s exactly what he wants: a sob story, something that will get clicks, eyes on his brand. His voice turns a fake, cloying tone.
“Don’t be afraid to share, Cole. Fans like to hear details that humanize players. For instance… You’ve had some trouble in the media lately. Is that something to do with family troubles?”
Before I can throw this hockey stick somewhere I shouldn’t—like straight in his goddamn face—Cassie is smoothly hurrying over, till she’s close to the interviewer, and I can just hear what she says.
Sweet, sunshine Cassie has steel in her eyes.
“This wasn’t on the list of approved questions,” she says calmly.
“The Nor’easters organization doesn’t take kindly to brands who manipulate their stars’ personal lives for clicks.
Neither does the agency I work for, and I think you’ll find we represent just about half the athletes in the country.
Unless you want to sponsor a little league team’s jerseys next year instead, I suggest you stick to the script.
” She smiles, bright and beautiful and deadly. “Thank you so much.”
The tone sounds much more like fuck you.
Cassie steps back to the side as the interviewer, mouth gaping and flustered, glances back down at his notes. “Uh—okay. Let’s, uh, move on.”
I can’t help it. The look on his face is so flustered. I burst out laughing, the feeling rumbling low in my chest.
Click.
The photographer looks triumphant. “Got it! Love to see that gorgeous smile, Cole. Finally.”
My face falls. God damn it.
Well, they’re going to have a grinning picture of me to slap alongside their puff-piece quotes.
To the side, Cassie cracks up, laughing at my irritated expression.
I scowl, but—well. Fuck it. It’s not all bad.
I think I’d smile more often if I knew it would make Cassie smile too.