Chapter 1
Chapter One
Alycia
The projector hums like it might give up before I do.
Its pale light spills across the Timberwolves’ media room, throwing the team logo in crisp green, black, and white behind me.
Four rookies slouch in their chairs as if this is detention instead of mandatory media training.
Their notebooks are closed, their pens untouched, and the boredom rolling off them is thick enough to taste.
By now, I should know their names by heart and be able to match every jersey number without sneaking a glance at my clipboard.
Anyone who grew up breathing this sport would.
But I didn’t, and every whistle still hits like a reminder that I’m the outsider here.
I’ve learned enough to fake it, though, and I’m damn good at my job.
Everyone has a place, and mine is making sure these boys don’t burn down their careers before they even start.
One of them sprawls back like his chair is a throne, arms folded across his chest. He clearly spends way too much time in the mirror.
Blonde hair, messy on purpose. Smirk carved into his face like he’s never heard the word no.
His gaze drags over me, lingering on my legs before sliding lazily back up.
“No offense, but I thought the Timberwolves hired PR staff for their brains, not their looks. Guess I was wrong.”
The others burst out laughing, and heat rises up my neck—not embarrassment, just exhaustion.
This isn’t the first, and it won’t be the last time I have to put someone like him in his place.
I’m not the one lacing up skates or sweating through drills, but my job is just as important.
Everything I do is to make sure this organization looks good when the cameras roll, especially after last season’s Mercer meltdown. We’re still cleaning up that mess.
“Thank you for demonstrating exactly what not to say on camera,” I say, voice cool and sharp.
“Fans don’t care about your stats. They care about the man behind the jersey, and right now, you look like someone who’d rather be an arrogant misogynist than a professional.
Reporters eat boys like you for breakfast.”
His smirk wavers as the room goes silent.
“You think you’re clever? Keep talking like that, and you’ll set your career on fire before it even starts. So, take notes, keep your mouth shut, and pay attention.”
Not a single word follows as I flip to the next slide.
“Congratulations on making it to training camp. That was the fun part. Now comes the part that keeps you in the league.”
The projector clicks when the door opens, and Cole Hendrix leans against the frame.
Six feet of confidence wrapped in muscle and a grin that could ruin reputations.
Hazel eyes threaded with blue, thick waves of hair that fall perfectly without trying, and a gold chain glinting at his throat.
He and Cooper could pass as twins if you squint, but Cole has more charm softening his edges.
Of course, he’s the one who walks into my meeting. Cole lives to stir the pot, but the one thing I’ve learned since he came back is that he doesn’t tolerate crap, especially when it’s aimed at the women who work here.
“Don’t mind me,” he says easily. “Just checking to see how our rookies are holding up under fire.”
All four boys sit up straighter.
“Here’s some advice,” he adds, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the rookie who mouthed off. “Don’t ever talk to her like that again. Alycia is the reason you won’t make fools of yourselves in front of the media. Respect her, or you deal with me.”
The kid’s face drains of color.
I keep my expression neutral, pen tapping lightly against my clipboard, but inside, I’m savoring every second. Watching their bravado melt is almost better than delivering the lecture myself.
Cole glances at me and winks, like he can see the laugh I’m biting back. I school my face into professional calm and click to the next slide. Before the silence can stretch, Beau Hendrix’s voice comes from the doorway.
“Cole giving you a hard time again, Torres?”
Beau steps inside with an easy grin. He’s taller than Cole by a few inches, broader, too. He carries a strength that makes people part around him. A hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves shoved to his elbows, a backward cap hiding half a head of dirty-blonde curls.
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Didn’t think so.” Beau drops into a seat in the back, warm hazel eyes steady. He’s nothing like his younger brother. He retired recently, forced off the ice after a health scare no one ever explained to me. Whispers carried further than facts.
People treated him like he was already gone, but I never did.
I even told off Coach Mercer on his last day here for the way he handled things with Beau.
They didn’t fire me for it, but things between Beau and me have been different ever since.
Standing up for him mattered to him. I know that.
Now he’s the Timberwolves’ goaltender coach, a steady anchor with a casual grin and curls spilling out from under his cap.
“Carry on, Torres,” Cole says, stretching out beside his brother.
Annoyance prickles under my skin—I can handle rookies without backup—but I move on. “Rule number one: Do not hit post when you are angry, drunk, or both.”
This time, every pen is moving. By the time I dismiss them, their notebooks are full, and their confidence is dented exactly the right amount.
They file out quickly, avoiding eye contact.
The cocky one lingers long enough to mumble something like an apology, but the door slams behind him before it fully forms. I let him sweat.
Cole lingers, too, looking entertained. “Not bad, Torres. Almost made me feel sorry for them.”
I raise a brow, and he just grins, satisfied.
“Good work.” Beau rises, chair scraping softly. His gaze catches mine, and something steady settles under my skin. Respect, or maybe that’s what I want it to be.
I’m sliding my laptop into my bag when Cole tosses out, “Oh, by the way, Coop wants to see you.”
“See me? Why?”
Heat prickles along my spine. Worst-case scenarios flare faster than I can stop them: complaints, mistakes, a rookie whining to management. It’s never nothing. When the head coach wants to see you, it’s a closed door and a stomach knot.
“Could be anything.”
“Relax. It’s not the principal’s office,” Beau says, smirking.
“Feels like it.”
The brothers share a quick look—one of those silent sibling conversations—and I catch it before it disappears. “You two know something.”
“Maybe,” Cole says.
“No, not maybe. Tell me.”
Beau laughs, already heading toward the door. “Sorry, Torres. Classified.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Annoying,” Cole corrects with a wink, “and that’s our big-brother privilege.”
Something catches in my chest at that. I’ve never had brothers or anyone to step between me and the world.
It’s infuriating how easily they slip into protector mode, like I’m a kid sister who needs guarding.
And still—beneath the irritation—there’s a flicker of something small and wanting. I shove it down before it shows.
The door closes behind them, and the room exhales with me.
Pride warms through my chest; I owned that room.
But the warmth fades quickly, replaced by a familiar curl of doubt.
The sharp buzz of my phone startles me. It skitters against the desk, lighting up with a name that knots my stomach tighter.
Mom.
Of course, she is calling me now. Her name lights up the screen with the same sinking weight it always brings. I silence the call before the sound can split me open. I’ll deal with her later. Right now, I have another storm waiting.
I make my way down the hall toward the elevator to head up to Cooper’s office, nerves tightening with each step. The photos lining the walls, the team’s biggest moments frozen in time, make the hallway feel colder. I stop at his door, square my shoulders, and knock before I second-guess myself.
“Come in.”
Cooper sits behind his desk, solid and broad-shouldered, with the same build as his brothers.
Brown hair a few shades lighter than Cole’s, warm eyes, and a scar that makes him look more rugged than intimidating.
He could be stern if he wanted, but the faint crow’s feet soften him.
I shut the door behind me, stomach tight.
“Why do you look like you’re walking into a firing squad?” he asks, voice light. “Relax. You’re not in trouble.”
“I feel like I’m back in school.”
“Then I should start handing out gold stars.” His smirk eases some of the tension.
“So… why am I here?”
“My brothers didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
He mutters something under his breath. “Figures. Between Cole stirring up trouble and Beau pretending he doesn’t, I should’ve known better.”
Before I can stop myself, I let out a short laugh. The sound eases the air between us.
“Anyway,” he says, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “You’ve been running point on the rookie media program for a while, and you’ve handled it better than anyone could’ve expected.”
The praise catches me off guard, landing heavier than I expect. Compliments in this job are rare. But compliments from Cooper Hendrix are almost unheard of.
I don’t know how to respond, so I straighten my spine and force my voice to steady. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Cooper’s mouth tips up, though not quite into a smile, as he shifts forward and braces his forearms on the desk. “Are any of the rookies giving you trouble?”
I immediately picture the smug grin on that cocky rookie’s face before Cole and Beau put him in his place. The way his eyes dragged over me like I was an accessory instead of a professional. For a second, I want to rat him out, but that would feel like admitting I couldn’t handle it.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say instead, folding my arms and holding Cooper’s gaze.
Cooper nods like that’s the answer he expected, but the question lingers. Why ask? Does he think I can’t handle them? Was he waiting for me to crack? My brain spirals before I can stop it.
“Was this a social call to tell me how awesome I am, or did you actually need something?”
My eyes go wide, and my hand flies up to cover my mouth as if I can shove the words back inside, where they belong. Mortification floods hot and fast through my chest, my stomach twisting into knots.
The silence stretches long enough for my pulse to trip into overdrive.
I brace for the reprimand and the possibility that this internship I fought to get is about to crumble because I can’t keep my mouth shut.
Then Cooper laughs, as if I’ve just given him the punchline to a joke instead of a reason to fire me, and I let out a shaky breath.
“I called you in because we’ve got a new rookie joining the team.”
“Then why wasn’t he at today’s session?” I bristle before I can stop myself.
“He had some car trouble this morning and didn’t make it to training.” Cooper’s mouth curves with something between pride and exasperation. “And this isn’t just another rookie; it’s my brother, Kyle.”
The name hangs between us for a beat before reality hits.
Kyle Hendrix is the youngest of the four brothers.
His name has been floating around the locker room and press box for a while, but now it’s official.
He’s coming to Portland, and if the whispers are true, he’s a player who attracts attention for all the wrong reasons.
“Finding out where Kyle would sign has been the talk of the league for a year,” he says. “Everyone’s obsessed with the idea of the whole Hendrix family ending up on the same team.”
“They act like you’re some kind of dynasty,” I say before I can catch the words.
“Dynasty, huh?” One of his eyebrows lifts, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “We’re just a family that plays a lot of hockey.”
“Maybe, but the press loves a good narrative.”
“You’re not wrong.” He exhales, leaning back in his chair. “And they’re going to be frothing at the mouth now that Kyle’s here. Everyone will want a piece of him.”
I can already see it—the cameras, the chaos, the barrage of questions—the mess will hit me first.
“Kyle is talented as hell.” Cooper shakes his head, fondness and frustration tangled together in his expression. “He was the number one draft pick, but he’s cocky and thinks he knows everything.”
“Wait. How is he draft-eligible? Didn’t he go to college”
Cooper lets out a short breath, nodding. “He did. Kyle started college at seventeen. This was his first-year draft eligible, so the league wasted no time snapping him up.”
“And I’m supposed to make sure he doesn’t blow it?”
His gaze fixes on me, like he knows exactly how heavy the words will land. “Exactly. You’re the only one I trust to do it.”
Trust isn’t something people hand me easily—not in this job, not in my life—and for a second, something warm and shaky pushes against my ribs. I almost don’t trust it or myself with it.
Kyle Hendrix. The league’s golden boy.
The youngest, the wildest, and the one everyone has been waiting for.
And now he’s mine to manage.
Lucky me.