Chapter 9 - Holly
Holly
My office was technically an old storage closet, but it was mine. A small, cluttered desk, laptop perched on one side, stacks of campaign notes on the other. Nothing glamorous, but more than enough for me to do what needed to be done.
“Really impressive work, Holly,” Bob said, looming behind me with that familiar tone that suggested condescension rather than praise. “I mean, for someone this new to the world of hockey.”
“Thanks, Bob.” My fingers moved over the keyboard without stopping. “I just make sure the work speaks for itself.”
He huffed, like that was cute or funny. “Yes, yes, but the public? They don’t see the work, you see. They only see the final product. That’s why I’ve been supervising you closely. To make sure your instincts are–”
“—on point. I know, and I appreciate the oversight.”
I appreciated nothing about the man, and my tone spelled it out loud and clear. But Bob was the kind of guy who didn’t pick up on nuance, which was one of the biggest reasons he was so bad at his job.
His eyebrows twitched. “Good. Because you’re dealing with Hunter, and I don’t need a repeat of last season’s disasters. Clear?”
“Crystal,” I said, opening his familiar frustration like a door I’d already stepped through.
While he droned on, I pulled up Hunter’s social media feed, knowing that one slip here could undo all my careful work.
I clicked through his posts, scanning the DMs, his tagged photos, any hint of behavior I needed to prune or reframe.
My fingers hovered over one particular DM, the one that made my stomach tighten ever so slightly, the one from some model Hunter had tagged weeks ago.
I ignored the first pang of irritation, the warmth of jealousy that tickled at the edges.
It wasn’t jealousy. There was nothing to be jealous about.
Bob’s voice continued, cutting through the quiet of the corner office. “I mean, Holly, honestly—sometimes I wonder if you’re actually keeping up with the pace of a pro athlete’s life. It’s relentless. You need to stay ahead of the curve, yes?”
My eyes were still glued to my screen, but I nodded to hide the spike of tension in my chest.
“Good. Because you’re dealing with sponsorships, with public appearances, with…”
I bit back a sigh, scrolling down through the DM thread.
The latest message was provocative, flirtatious, a reminder that Hunter existed in a world I couldn’t always control.
I clicked over to the model’s profile. Work, nothing more.
It was my job to know what we were dealing with.
Perfect photos, perfect lifestyle, every shot curated and glossy.
Sunsets in Santorini, poolside mornings in Capri, flawless angles of her flawless body in every frame.
I felt that twinge again. The one that wasn’t jealousy. But I couldn’t dwell on it. Not here, and not now.
Bob’s voice continued its patronizing rhythm. “You need to remember, Holly, every detail counts. One misstep…”
I exhaled quietly and set him to mute in my brain, scrolling a little faster through the model’s feed. My heart kicked up, and I went back to his messages.
With the precision of someone who had spent years compartmentalizing every feeling, I hit delete. The DM vanished from his account. No alert. No drama. Just gone.
Bob paused mid-sentence, as if he could feel the shift in my mood. “Everything good?”
“Yes. Everything’s on track,” I said evenly, closing the tab. My pulse had slowed, but a flush lingered on the back of my neck.
Within seconds though, it was filed away. Business first. Always business first.
Bob cleared his throat. “Excellent. I just hope you understand the stakes. Hunter’s image isn’t just his. It’s the brand. And the brand? Well…” He waved vaguely. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated is my specialty,” I said lightly, clicking over to an email draft I’d started with the sneaker brand I’d had my eye on. “Speaking of which, I’ll follow up with them about the shoot next week.”
His eyebrows rose. “You’re moving fast.”
“I move fast,” I said. “I also move effectively.”
He sighed, shaking his head, and finally left me to my corner of controlled chaos. The second the door clicked behind him, I let myself breathe a fraction easier.
I minimized the tab and picked up my phone, dialing the sneaker brand’s marketing line. “Hi, it’s Holly Griswold. San Antonio Surge. Let’s lock in the dates for the shoot…”
By the time I hung up, everything in my corner of the world was under control. Hunter’s brand and image were taken care of. All of it neatly piled, polished, curated. And me? Back to my role as the smooth and efficient one. Untouchable.
“I hate when your face does that thing right before we have to work.” Hunter stared at me with more than a little hesitation.
The press room was quiet, chairs stacked neatly at the edges, lights dimmed low except for the fluorescent glow over the central table. He was early for our one-on-one session, which was the first shocker.
“What’s my face doing?” I asked, going over to where he sat at the edge of the small stage.
He gave a low chuckle. Easy as a breeze. No idea what I’d just done. “Like you’re hoping for someone to piss you off so you can sock it to ‘em. Inevitably, that’ll be me.”
“Not unless you’re asking for it,” I said with a grin.
“So did you hear?” He practically loomed over me as I pulled out my tablet. “The late-night talk show that’s calling about me. They want me to headline their Tuesday night. Isn’t that insane?”
“I heard, and I declined.”
His grin faltered. “You what?”
“It clashes with your early training session,” I said, voice crisp. “Training is non-negotiable.”
“You seriously just declined without even talking to me?” His jaw tightened. I could see it, the shift from playful to annoyed. It made me wonder how he’d react if he knew about the DM I’d deleted without discussion either.
“It’s my job to manage these conflicts before they become your problem.” I kept my voice steady and calm to try and deflect some of the agitation he shot my way. “I offered them a pre-show taping at a more reasonable hour and day, but they refused. Not your problem.”
“Sounds a lot like my problem.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared at me. “What’s the point of fame when I’m not allowed to do any of the fun stuff with it?”
“There’s a difference between having fun with fame and letting everyone make a mad grab for a piece of you without a filter,” I said, working hard to keep the edge from my tone. “You need boundaries, or it’ll all fall to pieces around you.”
“Someone might look at it and think you’re using boundaries as an excuse for jealousy.”
That one hit me a little harder than it should’ve, but I swallowed it back with graceful aplomb and gestured toward one of the empty chairs.
“Sit. We start from the top.”
He obeyed, because he didn’t have much choice, though I could see the muscles in his jaw flexing. I watched him for a moment, my usual professional detachment tightening around me like a shield.
I launched into it, instructing him to keep his tone measured, to avoid defensiveness, to answer questions without the snark that reporters would jump on. I emphasized repetition, the way posture affects perception, the importance of neutral facial expressions and expecting surprises.
Hunter tried to interject once, a joke, a sidestep, something to lighten the mood. I didn’t let it land. “No. Do it again.”
I could feel his frustration building but held my ground. We were slipping back into that teacher versus student tantrum rhetoric and I didn’t want to lose the progress we’d made.
We went through the lines, over and over, his natural charm clashing with my insistence on control.
Somewhere between repetition five and six, I caught a glimpse of him exhaling through his nose, the way his hair fell damp across his forehead from training earlier.
Even exhausted, even frustrated, he carried that energy that made him magnetic.
I reminded myself to stay out of it. I reached for my tablet to go over the media schedule, to ignore the stir the sight of him caused in my chest. All because of that stupid DM. I had to get it together, and fast. Hunter was slow on the uptake, but even he’d notice something soon if I didn’t.
“Don’t let the reporter bait you. Don’t give them a reason to twist your words.”
“I’m never baiting anyone!” he shot back. “You make it sound like I go up there to deliberately provoke them.”
“Yes, but it’ll happen if you don’t prepare,” I countered. “Which is why we’re here.”
The fight of wills was electric, but I held my cool. The tension between us was there, yes, but I refused to let it crack my mask or derail the point of this time we had together.
“Alright,” I said, eyes narrowing. “Let’s run a scenario. Ready?”
“Do I get to be charming, or are you just gonna be a nightmare?” he muttered, already bracing.
“Charming doesn’t fix poor answers,” I replied without missing a beat. “Let’s go.”
He sat up straight and actually looked like he was listening. I took it as a good sign, and wasted no time in launching right into it.
“Hunter, the fans are talking about you and some teammates partying last night when your focus should be on the next game, especially at this point in the season. What do you say to that?”
He tapped a fake mic in front of him, laughing at his own stupid joke, and said, “I’d say we all deserved a night off. It was team bonding, which gives us an edge for the upcoming game.”
“Wrong,” I said immediately, deflating his pompous facade. “You sound defensive, like you’re explaining yourself. Try again. And this time, don’t apologize for having a life outside hockey. It makes you weak.”
“Okay… uh…” He tried again, slower. “We all needed a break. I made sure it didn’t affect practice. The team’s ready.”
I tilted my head, eyebrow raised. “Still defensive. Still weak. Let me give you some advice: admit nothing, deflect lightly, and never give the impression that the reporters know more about your life than you do. Try again. And this time, don’t sound so human. You’re a corporate press machine.”
“You want me to lie?”
“I want you to look like you’re winning the game off the ice,” I said sharply. “Answer.”
He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Fine. ‘We had a little downtime. Team’s ready. Next question?’”
“Better,” I relented. “But watch your tone! You sound like a bored teenage robot. Imagine the entire city is listening, and they will judge you. Are you really going to give them the satisfaction of seeing you like this? Control it.”
He groaned out loud. “Holly… have I done something to upset you?”
The question landed like a lightning strike. My stomach tightened. I blinked. No, I told myself. Absolutely not. Professional. No feelings here. Nothing.
“Of course not,” I said immediately, eyes on my screen. But in the very back of my mind, that DM flashed. Just for a second, just enough for me to notice it had never really left.