Chapter 22
Cole
Practice is brutal, but I welcome the physical punishment. For two hours, I can focus on nothing but hockey. It's the only peace I've had since yesterday's shit storm began.
In the locker room afterward, the guys are unusually quiet around me. Most give me supportive nods or pats on the shoulder, but no one brings up the elephant in the room until Novak approaches me by my locker.
“Heard management summoned you. You ready?” he asks, toweling off his hair.
“As ready as I can be.”
“Listen, Cap.” He leans against the lockers, his voice low. “You're a star player. Don't let them push you around in there. Your personal life is your business.”
“I appreciate that.” Never thought the day would come when I would take advice from the wildest player on the team.
“You show them that management doesn't get to interfere in your life. You're Cole fucking Maddox. Act like it.”
I'm grateful for his support, even if his advice feels overly aggressive. “Thanks, Nova.”
But as I walk toward the conference room, my own words from countless team meetings echo in my head. How many times have I stressed the importance of team image? How many lectures have I given about staying out of trouble, about representing the Renegades brand with class?
Now I look like a complete hypocrite.
All the air leaves my lungs when I step into the conference room.
They’ve brought out the big guns. General Manager David Bowman sits at the head of the table, flanked by team president Richard Carter and head of public relations Jennifer McCall.
Coach Mercer is there too, his expression unreadable.
“Cole, thank you for coming,” Bowman says as I take a seat. “I think we all know why we're here.”
“My personal life,” I say flatly.
“Your personal life that's now front-page news when we're three games out from playoffs,” Bowman corrects. “Our sponsors are asking questions. Our fans are distracted. And it's our captain at the center of it all.”
Jennifer slides a tablet across the table, showing various headlines and social media posts. “This isn't going away, Cole. If anything, it's getting bigger.”
“Have you seen the speculation about Harper Hayes getting her contract through nepotism?” Carter asks, then turns to Jennifer. “What can you tell us about her qualifications? Did she get this contract legitimately?”
Jennifer's expression hardens. “Harper Hayes earned that contract through merit alone. I wasn't aware of her relationship with Cole, and I had no idea Brett Hayes was her brother until yesterday. Her company presented the best proposal after Signature Events pulled out.”
“But the world doesn't know that,” Carter says. “It makes us look like we awarded a multi-million-dollar contract out of favoritism.”
Heat flares in my chest. “Harper earned every dollar of that contract. She's planned flawless events for us and raised almost seven hundred thousand dollars for charity. Anyone questioning her qualifications can go fuck themselves.”
“Cole,” Coach warns.
“No, I'm serious. Harper Hayes is the best event planner in the city. The suggestion that she needed my help to succeed is insulting to both of us.”
Jennifer’s expression softens. “We're not questioning her abilities, Cole. But perception matters in this business.”
“We've called a press conference for this afternoon,” Bowman says. “You need to address this situation.”
Jennifer pulls out a folder. “You'll need to find a way to deflect from your personal life and redirect focus back to hockey and the Renegades' playoff push.”
I stare at them for a moment. “Fine. I'll do the press conference.”
“Good. Two o'clock.”
I leave the meeting feeling like I've been run over by a truck. In the video room, I try to review game footage, but the plays blur together on the screen. My mind keeps drifting to Harper, alone in her office, dealing with reporters and probably losing clients.
I pull out my phone and call her.
“Cole?” She sounds exhausted.
“How are you holding up?”
“The press is still camped outside my office. I have a client meeting soon, and I have no idea how I'm going to get out of here without being mobbed.”
“I'm sorry. This is my fault.”
“It's both our fault,” she says quietly. “How did your meeting go?”
“They want me to do a press conference this afternoon. Redirect attention back to hockey.”
“That's probably smart. It shouldn't be about us. It should be about the game.”
Relief surges through me. I’m glad she gets it. “Harper, are you okay? You sound so low.”
“I'm fine. Just tired.” She pauses. “I was going to tell you last night, but didn’t want to upset you more…but a few clients have canceled their contracts.”
Shock reverberates through me. Harper had warned me about this, but it sounded far-fetched. “What? How many?”
“Two so far. And I'm worried there might be more.”
Guilt crashes over me in waves. Harper has worked so hard to build her company, and now it's falling apart because of me. “I'm so sorry. You don't deserve this.”
“I have to go. My client is here. We'll talk later, okay?”
The line goes dead, and I sit alone in the video room, staring at my phone.
Two hours later, I'm standing behind a podium facing a room full of reporters. The questions start easy. About our playoff chances, about the team's recent performance.
“The Renegades are six points out of a playoff spot with three games remaining,” I say into the microphones. “We're focused on taking it one game at a time and giving our fans something to cheer about.”
Then the inevitable question comes.
“Cole, can you address the photos of you and event planner Harper Hayes that surfaced yesterday?”
I keep my expression neutral. “Harper Hayes is a professional event planner who has done excellent work for our organization. The photo in question was taken at a charity auction where we were discussing work-related matters.”
“Are you saying there's no romantic relationship?”
“I'm saying Harper is a consummate professional who has exceeded all expectations in her work with the Renegades. Any suggestion that she received preferential treatment is baseless.”
But even as I say the words, something feels wrong about denying what we have.
After the press conference, I'm walking to my car when my phone rings. Brett's name flashes on the screen.
“So you were using her all this time?” He says as soon as I answer.
“What? No, that's not—”
“I just watched your press conference, Cole. Work-related matters? Really? You couldn't even admit you're together?”
“I was trying to protect her reputation.”
“You made her invisible!” Brett's voice cracks. “She's been ignored her whole life, overlooked by everyone, and you just made her feel invisible, too.”
“That's not what I was doing.” I’m hurt that he would think that of me. Were it not for Harper’s company, I would announce it to the whole world that I’m in love with her.
“Isn't it? You get to stand up there and deny your relationship while she loses clients and gets harassed by reporters. You threw her under the bus to save your own ass.”
“Brett, please let me explain.”
The line goes dead.
I drive home in a daze, Brett's words echoing in my head. Did I make Harper invisible? Was I protecting her or protecting myself?
The apartment feels enormous and empty without Harper. I want to call her, but I know she's handling a lot at work. I pace the living room, replaying the press conference in my head, wondering if I handled it wrong.
By seven PM, I can't wait anymore. I call Harper, but it goes straight to voicemail. I try again an hour later. Still nothing.
By ten PM, I'm genuinely worried. Harper always answers her phone, always lets me know where she is. I consider calling Brett, but after our earlier conversation, that's not an option. My other option is Ariel, but I don't have her number.
Why the fuck didn’t I ask Harper for it? Because I never foresaw a time when I couldn’t reach her.
I text her. Where are you? I'm worried.
Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes with a response. I'm at Ariel's. I'll come by in the morning to get my things. My apartment is ready.
What the fuck? I call her immediately, but she doesn't answer. I text back. What's going on? We need to talk.
No response.
I sit on the couch, trying to understand what the hell is going on. Yesterday morning, Harper was in my arms. Tonight, she won’t talk to me. Is it about the press conference? Does she think I denied our relationship to protect my image like Brett does?
A seed of doubt forms in my mind. Maybe I didn't protect Harper at all. Maybe Brett was right.