Chapter 2 Collin #2
“Three missed morning skates in two weeks. Late to team meetings. Showing up to practice hungover—and don’t think Wilson hasn’t noticed.
” Marcus’s jaw tightens. “You’re our first-line defenseman, for Christ’s sake.
We need you focused, and instead you’re treating this job like it’s some kind of. .. what? Extended college party?”
“That’s not—”
“Not what you meant to do? Not what you planned?” Marcus stands, spreading his hands on his desk.
“Hell, Collin, we’ve got guys running extra drills because we know there’s a fifty-fifty chance they’ll have to cover your position on any given morning.
That’s not fair to them, and it’s not fair to the rest of this team.
” Coach Wilson shifts his weight, the floorboards creaking under him.
“Your teammates are picking up your slack, son. That’s not what we brought you up for.”
“I know,” I say, the words feeling thick in my throat. “I’ll fix it. I’ll—”
“Oh, we’re just getting started.” Marcus nods to Shannon, who steps forward, her tablet coming to life with a soft click. “Because your professional conduct? That’s only half the problem.”
“Let’s review your greatest hits, shall we?
” She swipes through image after image, each one making me sink lower into the leather.
There I was, stumbling out of Whiskey Bar with twins.
Another showed me at the Space Needle with a redhead from the charity auction.
The headlines were worse than the photos: “Ice Hawk’s Bad Boy Strikes Again,” “King’s Night of Debauchery,” “Seattle’s favorite D-man: When Will He Be Tamed? ”
“Jesus,” I mutter, running a hand down my face. “Those aren’t even—”
“The fans might love it,” Marcus cuts in, his forced calm cracking.
“Hell, your jersey sales are through the roof. But you know who doesn’t love it?
Our sponsors. You know what Greenlight Insurance said to me yesterday?
They’re worried about associating their ‘family-friendly brand’ with our resident playboy.
” He paces behind his desk. “Mercy Financial has threatened to pull out entirely. Do you have any idea what that would do to our budget?”
“Not to mention,” Shannon adds, scrolling to another headline that makes me wince, “the NHL lifestyle blogs have started calling you ‘Hockey’s Most Eligible Fuckboy.’ That’s not exactly the image we’re going for here.
” Coach Wilson steps forward, his massive frame casting a shadow across Marcus’s desk.
“Look, son, we get it. You’re twenty-four, you’re living the dream. Hell, most rookies go a little wild their first season.” His voice softens. “But this? This is beyond wild. This is reckless.”
“I’ll do better,” I start, but Marcus’s laugh stops me short again.
“You’re damn right you will. Because we’re not giving you a choice anymore.” He glances at Shannon. “I asked PR to look into some options for damage control.” She steps forward, finger tapping against the edge of her tablet.
“What we need,” she says, speaking slowly, “is to rehabilitate your image. Make you more... relatable. Likeable.” She glances up, thin glasses at the edge of her nose, studying me like I’m a particularly challenging stain she has to remove. “Marketable.”
“My numbers are solid,” I argue, trying to keep the defensiveness out of my voice. “The fans love me. I’m one of the most talked-about players in the league—”
“Correction,” Shannon cuts in. “The fans want to sleep with you. Besides, this isn’t about the fans, Collin.
This is about the sponsors. Trending on Twitter for your latest walk of shame isn’t the kind of attention we’re looking for.
We need something more... appropriate. Something that shows genuine change.
” A small smile curves her lips. “And I think I’ve found just the thing. ”
“Whatever it is,” I start, not liking that smile one bit, “I’m sure we can—” Marcus leans forward, clasping his hands on his desk.
“We’ve signed you up for Ice Breakers.” My brain stutters to halt. Ice Breakers? Like the...
“The mints?” I blurt out, immediately wanting to crawl under Marcus’s desk as the words leave my mouth. He stares at me with the kind of dead-eyed expression that makes me wonder if he’s reconsidering his entire career in hockey management.
“The show, King. A reality show.” Way to go, genius. Really showing off that university education there. I blink.
“A what now?” Shannon makes a sound that might be a laugh or a scoff—hard to tell.
“A reality television show. Professional hockey players paired with figure skaters. They train together, perform routines, compete.” She clearly notices my blank expression because she adds, slowly, “It’s been advertised in the arena for months.” Riiiiiight.
“Each week,” she continues, clearly enjoying my growing horror, “you and your partner will perform a routine on live television. The audience votes and the final winners get to donate to a charity of their choosing.” She sets the tablet down, head tilted in my direction.
“And America gets to watch you...” Her lips twitch.
“Learn to embrace your more feminine side.”
“Just over three months of training and performing,” Marcus added. The blood drained from my face.
“That’s half the season! You’re gonna bench me for half the season?”
“You’ll play home games only,” Marcus says, his tone making it clear this isn’t up for debate. “And you’ll suit up for every game and practice that doesn’t conflict with filming.” My stomach lurches.
“Wait, filming? Like, cameras-following-me-around filming?”
“At practice and performances. That’s generally what a reality show entails, yes.
” Shannon’s voice drips with fake patience.
“They’ll record the practices as well as the show, they’ll want to see your journey.
The struggles, the triumphs, the personal growth.
” Personal growth. Right. Because nothing says ‘I’ve matured as a person’ like falling on your ass in sparkly spandex on national television.
“And if I get sloppy?” I lean forward, trying to sound professional instead of panicked. “The team is going to suffer. You know that.”
“I do,” Marcus says, leaning forward on his desk.
“And I’m glad you recognize that. But newsflash, hotshot—the team is already suffering because their defenseman lacks discipline!
” His fist crashes down on the desk, making Shannon’s tablet jump.
“You might have thought about that before getting your conquests splashed all over page six and treating this opportunity like a God-given right.” The silence that follows stretches across the office.
Coach Wilson clears his throat. “While you’re at it,” he says, voice gravelly, “you might want to apologize to your teammates for how your behavior will affect everyone this season.” I clear my throat, scrubbing a hand over my face, stubble scratching against my palm.
“When do I start?” Shannon’s smile widens.
“Monday. Your partner’s already been selected.
Try to show up on time for this one, yeah?
” I slump back in my chair. Three months of my life gone because I couldn’t keep my shit together.
No more road games. No more freedom. Just me, some figure skater, and a bunch of cameras waiting to catch every stumble. What a fucking mess.