Chapter 17 - Holly
Holly
The air in my office condensed around my thoughts as if it could squeeze them into clarity, and before I could even reach for a coffee, Bob barged in.
“I was about to ask if you’d seen the headlines, but you’re whiter than my nephew at a Kendrick Lamar concert.”
I let out a sharp breath and held up a hand. “Close the door.” He raised an eyebrow, that smug grin already in place, but he obeyed. My brain was spinning a thousand steps ahead, no time for his theatrics. “How far has this spread?”
Bob leaned against the edge of my desk. “Pick a platform. It’s viral everywhere.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” I muttered, feeling the squeeze tighten.
Every second mattered. Every outlet, every social post could snowball. I got out my phone and pulled up my contacts, dialing my most reliable media contact.
“Alex, I need you to hit every single editor you know,” I said, keeping my voice calm, clipped, precise. “Right now. We need to stop this story from gaining traction. Call in every favor you can think of. Do it without naming names, but move fast.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Holly, this is the real juice. People are already losing their shit over it. There’s no way we can do anything to–”
“Then make it not matter,” I cut in. “I don’t care what you have to do to get it done, it’s your job to bury it. Do you have anything else you can run instead? Some other celebrity news?”
A hesitant laugh. “Uh, well, I mean–”
“Spit it out, Alex.” My tone was steel.
“I might be sitting on a positive pregnancy test found in a pop star’s trash.” The hesitation in his voice was palpable, but I didn’t miss a beat.
“Perfect. Run with it. Get it front and center. Make Hunter’s dad old news.”
I clicked off the call and lifted my eyes to Bob, who was about to edge his way out of my office.
“No.”
He froze mid-step. “The kid’s jailbird dad is making the news. What do you want me to do about it? He’s gonna have to ride it out.”
I didn’t wait. I brought him into my plan, mapping it out: which outlets we could influence, which reporters I had on speed dial, the angle we’d push, the statements ready if anyone tried to pry.
He tried to interject a few times, trying to assert authority, but I kept the flow.
I was a force when I needed to be, and right now, I needed to be.
“The narrative is ours to control,” I said, sweeping my iPad toward me. “We’re moving fast, no room for hesitation. I need to see the team. They need to understand exactly what to say when anyone comes at them. No exceptions. Single line, delivered consistently.”
Bob shook his head. “You want to talk to them in the locker room? Really?”
“Yes. They’re the first line. If they don’t know how to respond, the story spreads faster than anything I can do from here.”
I grabbed my iPad and didn’t wait for further argument.
The locker room held its usual blend of stink and bullshit conversation when I got there.
The team had just finished their pre-game warmup, their chatter echoing off the walls.
I held up a hand, calling them to attention.
Hunter was leaning against the bench, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes following me with that cool but familiar intensity.
“Listen up,” I said, my voice firm and steady. “The press is going to try to get to you about a personal story.”
“Personal story about what?” someone piped up.
“Doesn’t matter,” I replied. “You’re not answering questions. Not a word. This is the only statement you give: ‘I’m focusing on the team and the game.’ That’s it. No elaboration, no commentary, no social media posts. Understood?”
“Don’t we get to know what it’s about?” Grayson this time. His sarcastic laughter got the rest of them going.
A few heads nodded. Mason’s eyes flicked to Hunter, silently challenging him, but Hunter only inclined his head.
“If they hound you for details, just say ‘no comment’ and move on.” I felt my hold on them slipping, but persisted. This wasn’t going to work if they weren’t all on board.
“Wait, I’m not talking to them?” Hunter asked, stepping closer, his tone incredulous but controlled.
“Not now,” I said. “I’ll deal with you separately. Right now, I need the team to help keep the story contained.”
“Why not just deal with it now? I’m here, aren’t I? Stop talking about me like I’m not.” His voice was low but edged with frustration.
I met his gaze steadily. “Not now, Hunter. Focus on your game. I’ll talk to you after.”
He hesitated, the protest caught somewhere between defiance and trust. The rest of the team glanced at each other, realizing the urgency in my tone. No one moved. No one spoke beyond a quick murmur of acknowledgment.
I could see Hunter’s jaw set, the tension in his posture. I noted it, cataloged it, but didn’t comment. That was my job. My attention remained entirely on managing the narrative. Every player, every response, had to be calibrated.
“Good,” I said, sweeping the room with a glance. “Now that we’re on the same page, remember to not let any of this mess with you on the ice. Your responsibility is to the team first. I’m sure your coach will back me one hundred percent on that.”
Hunter looked like he wanted to argue further, but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded slightly and returned to the bench. I held the moment, letting them absorb the instructions, reinforcing the single-line strategy.
Once I was confident they were aligned, I gave Hunter one last sharp look. “Come to my office when you’re ready. We’ll deal with the rest privately.”
He opened his mouth but thought better of it.
His attention flicked toward the team, then back to me, before finally walking out of the locker room.
I collected my iPad and took a deep breath, letting my mind pivot to the next steps.
The media push was contained, the team prepped, and Hunter—well, Hunter would have to wait.
I left the locker room, every step measured.
This was the first wave of damage control, but I had a plan, and the control was mine.
Not once did I allow myself to get caught up in the reality of it all.
Hunter’s dad, in prison. He’d mentioned his family not being in contact or involved, but never told me anything about this.
Having it splashed all over must be killing him.
But I couldn’t think about any of that. Not now.
*
Hunter shoved the door open before I had a chance to say anything, the office filling with the sharp snap of his anger.
“Why are you treating me like a product?” he demanded, voice reverberating against the walls. “I’m not some brand you polish and parade around. I’m a person, Holly. A real live person!”
I leaned back in my chair, hands gripping the edge of my desk, letting his words hang there. The storm was coming, and I had to meet it head-on.
“I hate to break it to you, but you’re both,” I said, calm, deliberate. “A player with a public image and a human being who happens to skate in that uniform. That’s what you signed up for, Hunter. There’s nothing you can do about it, so stop fighting it and just do what you’re told.”
He slammed his hands against the desk. “Do what I’m told? So what, just sit there and let them run me over? Let them dictate how the world sees me? You call this protection?” His voice cracked on the last word, jagged and raw.
“I call it survival,” I said. “You think you’re ready to just speak your mind and tell the world whatever you feel about your dad?
You think it’s simple? It’s not about honesty.
It’s about consequences. You want to wreck everything you’ve built in one headline?
This isn’t a game you can win by skating fast or making a save. ”
He froze, jaw tight, and I could see the hurt flaring behind his eyes. The same hurt he’d carried the night he told me about his mom and little brother, the same one he’d tried to bury beneath humor and bravado.
“I’ve been taught to face things head-on,” he muttered, voice lower now but trembling. “You think I’m ready to skate around it forever?”
“And what exactly are you going to say, Hunter?” I leaned forward, voice sharp, cutting through his self-righteous indignation.
“I haven’t seen my deadbeat dad in years.
I’m nothing like him. Now please buy tickets to the next game?
Or are you going to apologize for him? Confess to a world that doesn’t care beyond the shock value?
You don’t get a special platform just because it hurts. You’re not unique here.”
He sagged back, the words hitting him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. For a moment he was quiet, rocking back on his heels, trying to reconcile the truth of my delivery with his instinct to fight. Then he muttered, almost reluctantly, “Yeah, something like that.”
I let the silence settle, knowing exactly the effect it would have.
“Something like that isn’t enough,” I said with a scoff.
“You have no idea what you’re dealing with.
You think a few heartfelt words will change the media cycle?
You think sincerity matters when you’re a commodity?
Honesty never wins.” My tone was steady, icy even, but my mind was racing to balance every consequence, every leak I’d managed to kill, every media contact I’d leaned on to hold this together.
This was my world, and I had to control it.
He narrowed his eyes, the hurt curdling into defiance. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? How is it ever a bad thing to be honest?” His words were deliberate, sharp, meant to cut.
I watched as the statement reverberated through the space between us, and I could see the impact before I even responded. His shoulders stiffened, and his jaw ticked. A mix of challenge and pain.
“Because truth doesn’t matter in the headlines,” I said. “All that matters is perception. And right now, perception is everything. You don’t get to waltz in here and treat the world like it owes you an understanding it will never give. You are not immune, Hunter. You are not special.”
He flinched, the words landing like stones in his gut.
His gaze dropped, then rose again, sharper, harder.
“You think you can tell me how to live my life?” There was fire in his voice now, a challenge, a test. He was trying to regain footing, but he didn’t understand the full extent of what I was balancing, the stakes of my role.
“I’m the one out there. I should be allowed to deal with this, not just wait while you spin everything for me. ”
“You’re not allowed to do anything until I say you can,” I shot back, tone unyielding.
“Do you think I enjoy having to protect you from your own skeletons? Do you think it’s easy to hold back a story that’s already gone viral?
You’re not negotiating here, Hunter. You’re in no position to do that.
What you do now is follow my instructions. ”
A flash of something dark passed through his eyes, and he leaned forward, voice dropping to a low, cutting edge. “So, it’s all business. You don’t give a damn about me as a person. Just the brand.”
The accusation hit me with more force than I expected. He was right, in a way. I was balancing, managing, protecting, and somewhere beneath it all, my own reaction to him—the lines between professional and personal always thinner than anyone would guess—was straining. But he couldn’t know that.
“I care about what you can do, Hunter,” I said, each word measured, lethal in its honesty.
“And you care about what you can’t control.
That’s where we’re at. Stop acting like I don’t see you, like I don’t understand what this is doing to you.
I do. But it doesn’t matter. Because if this goes sideways, it’s more than your feelings that get hurt.
It’s your career, the team, every person depending on you to be a pro. That matters more than anything else.”
I could see the subtle shift in his stance, the way his hands flexed at his sides, the tight exhale.
For a moment there was a pause, a reckoning moment, a weightless second where everything we’d built—the trust, the late-night sessions, the subtle intimacies, the glimpses of connection—balanced on a knife edge.
His jaw tightened, eyes hard. “You always put the job first, don’t you? Everything’s about the narrative, the spin, the brand. And me? I don’t even exist outside of it. No wonder you’re alone in all of this.”
I stared at him, the words slicing through, but I didn’t soften. I didn’t move. I had to be steel in this moment, because the stakes were real.
“Get out,” I said, voice steady, unwavering. “Let me do my job.”
He hesitated, hurt flickering across his features, one last attempt to push, to argue, to reclaim some part of the conversation. “You don’t get it—”
“I said get out and let me do my job.”
With a growl, he turned, the office door slamming behind him.
The echo reverberated long after he was gone.
I sank into my chair, letting the air in the room settle.
Alone now, I allowed the weight to press down.
The responsibility, the anger, the frustration, the personal stake.
The room was quiet and still enough for me to feel the tug of every decision I’d just enforced, every line I’d drawn between professional necessity and personal feeling.
I closed my eyes for a moment and let it all sit.
The headlines, the viral posts, the brand, the man behind it, and the wedge I’d just driven between us.
Everything was fine in theory, perfectly managed.
But the theory had cracks. And somewhere deep, I felt the strain, the tug, the reminder that even the most controlled chaos carries the risk of collateral damage.
I had done my job, but the ache of it lingered.