Chapter 2
Holly
A faint metallic tang of ice and sweat filled the tunnel.
Reporters packed the narrow space, phones out, clamoring to get their next headline.
I broke into a jog, my heels piercing the low thrum of everyone talking at once.
I thought I’d have more time after meeting with Hunter, but clearly I’d underestimated the media’s interest in the team’s stunning season opener loss.
“Back up, please.” I shouldered through the cheap suits. “If you don’t have clearance, you wait in the press room with everyone else.”
The mass barely moved. One of them stuck his phone in my face, but I angled my body and gave him my back instead. “I said, move.”
There were a few muttered protests, but I ignored them and pushed into the locker room. Straight into the inimitable Bob Trent, waltzing out at the same time. He was flanked by a reporter and cameraman, with Hunter trailing close behind.
“What the hell is this?” I had a palm on Bob’s chest and one covering the camera lens.
He smiled through his confusion. “What does it look like? This is Abel, from Hot Seat. A close partner of the Surge.”
Also the rattiest rag this side of the equator, but I didn’t have the time or the wherewithal to explain that to him now.
“I thought we talked about prepping players before interviews,” I said with an incredulous glare. We had this conversation less than two hours ago.
A sly smile spread on his face. “Well, then you’ll be pleased to know this isn’t an interview. Isn’t that right, Callahan?”
“Hot Seat always gets the scoop after the game,” Abel replied, and it became clear what I was dealing with.
Hunter was nothing more than a pawn in their little partnership. Stroking each other’s cocks for a payday.
My first day on the job, and the only woman in a sea of tacky neckties and New Balance sneakers. If I didn’t set a precedent for my standard of work early on, I was doomed.
“Let’s hold off on locker room scoops until we’ve established protocol for the new season,” I said, standing my ground.
“Don’t get your panties in a knot, sweetheart.” Condescension dripped from his words as Bob started down the tunnel toward the press room, Abel sticking close. Hunter trailed behind, following but by no means amped.
I hurried to catch up, falling in step beside him. “Listen to me. This is a bad idea. After the game you just had–”
“Bob says I have to,” he said with a shrug.
“It’s not his call to make. You’re my client.”
Right then Bob called back over his shoulder, “It’s showtime, buddy.”
Hunter slowed. “I told them I don’t wanna do this.”
A lifeline. Weak, but there. I grabbed it with both hands.
“You shouldn’t be doing it.” I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Good old Bob. “This all happened really quickly and you want to start the season off on the right foot, don’t you?”
He seemed unsure. “Kinda late for that now, after that embarrassing loss.”
I knew I was close to getting him out of there, but my time was up.
Bob came over and draped an arm around Hunter’s shoulders. He had to stretch to reach, and Hunter’s face said exactly what he thought of the inauthentic show of support.
“Just say the team’s in a bit of crisis after Trey left,” Bob said, physically steering him to the press room. “Tell them you’re here to steady the ship. Fans love a savior story.”
“You never say ‘crisis’ to the press.” I slipped by them to block the doorway. Behind me, I could already hear the shutters of cameras and reporters talking. “And you never throw another player under the bus. That’s just basic PR.”
“Settle down,” Bob said with a laugh. Slick as ever. “It’s just a spin.”
“It’s a bad spin. With all due respect,” I added, remembering my place in the food chain. “I’m just trying to avoid a media backlash we might not be able to control.”
Hunter’s eyes flicked between us like he’d wandered into a domestic argument. He wasn’t getting involved, because he didn’t want to. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t be here.
“I’m not the type to pull rank or anything–” I allowed myself an internal eye-roll and let Bob finish. “-but Coach McAvoy wants him at the table tonight. Callahan’s the story, sweetheart. And that’s basic hockey.”
I realized I wasn’t going to win this round. Not here. Not now. I pulled my phone out of my blazer pocket, thumbs moving fast. Thank God I had the foresight to save Hunter’s contact from the client folder Bob gave me as part of my welcome package.
Three lines—clean, neutral, impossible to twist:
We’re focused on regrouping as a team, ironing out some early season kinks. Every player in that locker room is committed to giving their best every game. We’re looking ahead to build on what we know works.
I hit send just as Hunter and Bob were going in.
“I sent you a script,” I said. “Stick to it. No matter what they ask.”
All I got was a dismissive wave as he walked into the press room. He didn’t even look at his phone.
“I hate it here,” I muttered under my breath.
*
The rink was a different kind of chaos. Not the fever pitch of a game, but organized noise.
Skates carving into ice, pucks clattering against boards, the sharp shrill of Coach McAvoy’s whistle cutting through the cavernous space.
I sat in the penalty box with this morning’s paper, watching bodies in Surge jerseys blur past.
My presence caused a stir with the guys, but I took it on the chin. I was here to make a point, and then I’d be on my way.
A wolf-whistle pierced the cold as one of them skated by. “You single?”
Another came a few seconds later and smacked his stick against the boards, flashing a wink in my direction.
I ignored them both.
This was supposed to be me challenging myself, stepping outside the box with a career shift that would help me grow. Make me better at my job. My therapist thought it was a great idea, but she couldn’t have known how much it would reek of testosterone.
Hunter broke from a drill and skated toward the box, helmet off, hair damp and curling against his forehead. He reached for a water bottle from the ledge, tilting it back without looking at me. Up close, he looked even taller than he had yesterday in the tunnel. Broader too.
I went over to him. “You’re dragging your blocker side.”
His head turned, brown eyes narrowing at me over the bottle. “What?”
“Also, your breakouts. They’re, uh…” I searched for a word. Anything my brain had filed from hockey games I’d caught on TV. “Your breakouts are loose. And maybe too many slap shots from the slot. Definitely watch those.”
He lowered the bottle slowly. “That’s… not a thing. None of what you said makes sense.”
“Sure it does. I just said it.”
His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. “If you wanna tell me how to play goalie, maybe you should study up the game a little more.”
“So you’re saying you won’t take my hockey advice because I know nothing about hockey?” We were getting closer to my reason for being here, and I couldn’t help the satisfied smirk. “What about PR?”
I pressed today’s paper into his chest, and he caught it reflexively. The headline screamed: DISASTER brEWING FOR SURGE.
His brow furrowed as he looked at it. “Wow. Subtle.”
“I told you to stick to the script.”
“I answered their questions,” he said, clearly agitated.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Hunter. You don’t answer their questions.” My voice stayed level, but my grip on the boards tightened. “You say what I tell you to say.”
He raised an eyebrow, still holding the paper. “But what if it doesn’t match what they’re saying?”
“Not the point. The point is you control the narrative,” I said. ”Do as I say, and by the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be as slick as a politician running for office.”
That earned me a quiet laugh. “Slick, huh?”
“This isn’t a joke. You didn’t even read the text I sent you.”
“Look,” he said, straightening to his full height. “I don’t see the point, that’s all. People just want to hear someone talk after a loss. I talked. End of story.”
“It’s not end of story,” I said. “It’s the beginning of one. And right now, that story is going off the rails.”
“You’re really wound up about this.” He eyed me with amusement and a hint of curiosity. “It was just one game. I have the whole to–”
“I’m not wound up. I’m doing my job.”
His gaze flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes. So quick I would’ve missed it if he didn’t lick his lips right after.
A whistle blew from the far end of the ice. Coach McAvoy barked something about line changes, and Hunter tossed his water bottle and the newspaper back into the box.
“I want one-on-one time with you,” I said. “You’re more of a trainwreck than I thought.”
“Careful…” He tilted his head, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
I ignored the flutter in my chest. “I’m being serious. Twice a week, before or after practice. You decide.”
Before he could answer, a voice boomed behind me. “Just the man I wanted to see!”
Bob. Of course. He barreled up to the boards, phone in one hand, that stupid shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “Callahan, baby, I’ve got a prime sponsorship deal lined up for you.”
“That was fast,” Hunter said, sounding impressed.
I, on the other hand, tried not to draw blood with the way I bit the inside of my cheek. Hunter was my client. That meant his sponsorships were my responsibility.
“You’re going to love it,” Bob said, practically creaming himself. “Mattress King. Biggest mattress store chain in Texas. They want you as their face for the new ‘Dream Defense’ campaign.”
Hunter blinked. “Mattresses?”
“Picture it…” Bob gestured wildly. “You, full gear, diving onto a king-size. Tagline writes itself.”
I stared at him. “I’m going to have to say no on that.”
Bob turned to me, eyebrows up. “Excuse me?”
“That deal isn’t aligned with his brand,” I said, crisp and contrite. “He’s an elite athlete, not a mattress salesman. We’re building a narrative here.”
Bob laughed. “What brand? What narrative? He’s a goalie. Who cares where his face is, as long as it pays. Am I right, Hunter?”
I held up a finger to clip whatever response from Hunter. His jaw snapped shut, and I said, “You brought me on to work with him exclusively, and I’m asking you to let me do that. I already have potential sponsorships lined up.”
Bob’s face went redder. “I brought you on as an intern, sweetheart.”
The man was one ‘sweetheart’ away from a trip to the ICU. Even so, I held my tongue and formulated a more professional response. But before I could get to that–
“Callahan!” Coach McAvoy yelled from across the ice. “That water break ended yesterday. Let’s go!”
Hunter pushed back from the ledge, and pointed at Bob. “Set up the meeting with Mattress King.”
My head snapped toward him. “Hunter—”
But he was already skating off, pushing hard into the ice, long strides carrying him back into the drill. He didn’t look back.
Bob smirked at me. “Guess the man knows what he wants.”
The cold from the boards seeped through my blazer, but my cheeks were warm.