Twenty-Six
By the time the DJ announces “half an hour to midnight,” my face hurts from smiling.
I’ve shaken more hands in three hours than I have in three seasons.
Sponsors, councilors, influencers with TikTok handles I’m supposed to pretend I’ve heard of.
Every one of them wants a piece of “the face of the franchise.” Westfield’s been glued to my shoulder all night, dragging me in front of the Sin Bin logo for photos like a prize he won.
Across the room, black silk. Dark red lipstick.
Ivy, moving through this place like she means to burn it down.
Every time she slips behind a body or a camera rig, my eyes hunt for her. I track her the way I would a puck through a messy crease.
Earlier, PR slid a notecard into my hand. I haven’t looked at it since. It sits in my suit pocket now, the corner digging into my thigh every time I move.
Cheap cardstock. Expensive leash.
Westfield leans in close. “Big moment, Gabriel. Let’s bring everyone in. Midnight toast near the stage.” His hand lands on my shoulder, thumb pressing in just below the collarbone—friendly to anyone watching. Steering wheel, to me.
So I move.
The crowd moves with us. Somebody shakes my hand. Somebody else touches my elbow to turn me toward a camera.
Smile.
Flash.
Turn.
Flash.
Logo.
Hand on my shoulder.
Smile again.
The room starts coming at me in pieces instead of people. White bursts. Teeth. Champagne. Wolves burgundy against Sin Bin black. Someone says my name and my face answers before the rest of me does.
Westfield angles my body toward the Sin Bin step-and-repeat, lining me up beside the logo for another photo.
“Chin up.”
A phone snaps. Then another. Then a burst that leaves white spots flashing in my vision.
I hold the smile. Hold it. Hold it.
Somewhere outside myself, I watch him do it.
Then—
Black silk.
Ivy, standing near the bar, half-turned toward the masses. Her lipstick looks like a warning sign under the warm lights.
There.
The room snaps back around her. Music. Bodies. Glass cold against my fingers. The edge of the notecard biting my thigh.
Her eyes find mine for a second—long enough that something cinches under my ribs. Long enough that I want her to stay standing exactly where she is. And long enough that I remember she’s got a plan and I’m meant to trust it.
I don’t fully trust it. I trust her.
Westfield’s voice slides in, low and smooth. “See? The town loves you.”
Again. Right side. Close enough to the seam he paid for that my skin remembers the clinic before I do. He pats it once more before drifting off to talk to a sponsor.
I breathe through my nose and keep my posture open. Elbows loose. Glass at chest height. The version of me they can sell.
A heavy hand lands on my bicep.
I turn.
A guy in a suit that’s slightly too shiny for the lighting crowds my space. His hair sits slicked back. An “ALL ACCESS” laminate swings on a lanyard against his chest, catching the light as it spins.
It reads: brAXTON HICKS – MEDIA DIRECTOR.
The name Ivy gave me a week ago.
I stare at the slicked-back hair and the shiny suit, hunting for where I’ve seen this face. The blizzard night, maybe—that guy at the edge of the bar, gone before I gave him a second look. Nothing about him stuck.
Apparently, he’s Westfield’s media guy. And he’s grinning at me like we share a secret.
“Look at you. Center of the universe. Just like old times, eh, Cas?”
Cas.
Only the guys on my line call me that.
I grind my teeth. “Do we know each other?”
He laughs, wet and rough, and takes a swig of his drink. “Martin’s really rolling out the red carpet. Tells me you’re the future. The shiny new leader this franchise needs.”
My fist clenches around the glass, knuckles whitening. The rim bites my palm.
I force my hand open. Slow. Controlled. “I’m just here to do a job, pal. Enjoy your drink.”
He tips his glass toward me, smirking over the rim. “Oh, I will. It tastes better when you know who paid for it.”
The crowd surges behind him, pressing us closer to the stage. Somebody bumps my elbow, sloshing the drink. A few drops hit my cuff. Cameras flash again, hungry for friction.
Westfield watches from the corner of his eye, smile fixed for the room but his attention on me. Like he wants to see what I do with this.
The media director’s gaze flicks past my shoulder—past me—toward the bar.
Toward Ivy.
His grin widens for a split second, like he tastes something sweet.
Violence spikes hot through my blood. Every instinct I have screams at me to drop my shoulder, plant my feet, and put him straight through the drywall. The glass in my hand groans. One more ounce of pressure and it shatters.
I force myself to breathe. Swallow the heat. The cameras are begging for a flinch.
My shoulders lock instead, the suit pulling taut across my back as I keep my face smooth. The smile holds the shape they trained into me. The absolute strain at the edges is my problem alone.
Braxton Hicks steps back into the crowd, already half-turned away, moving like he owns the air.
He weaves toward the bar, drink in hand, lanyard bouncing, bragging to a couple of influencers who look bored out of their minds.
One of them checks their camera framing while he talks, not even looking at his face.
He’s on payroll. Westfield’s media pet, or close enough. But Westfield told me that the leadership conversation was strictly in the vault. Just between us, Gabriel.
So how the fuck does that asshole know?
Either Westfield leaked it to lock me in, or Braxton Hicks stands closer to the throne than he looks.
Then the name clicks, doing what his face couldn’t. Hicks. Hickey. The backup goalie. Barely on the roster. The kid who got added for a tournament because his dad funded the new team bus. The same one Thompson and I used to chirp in the locker room because it was easier than feeling bad for him.
A gap opens among the people. Westfield slides into it, wearing that smooth smile he saves for donors, his cuff peeking from his jacket.
“Gabriel. Ready?”
I force my shoulders to remain loose. “For what?”
“To say a few words, of course. It’s almost time.” He smooths two fingers down my lapel, straightens nothing, then leaves his hand there a beat too long. Warm. Possessive. Camera-clean. “Tiffany gave you the notecards, didn’t she?”
I keep my grin in place. My thigh burns where the folded notecard sits in my pocket.
“Yeah, she did.”
“Perfect.” Westfield’s mouth keeps smiling while his voice drops into my ear, just for me. “Do this right, and after the season we stop talking hypotheticals.” His fingers settle on my shoulder, squeezing once. “Holt’s got two years. But circumstances change.”
Circumstances change.
The same offhand remark he made a few weeks ago. Tonight, it sounds like intent.
I look past him.
Ivy hasn’t moved. She lingers near the bar in a crowded room, alone, spine straight, arms loose at her sides.
Our eyes meet.
She tilts her head a fraction, holding my gaze long enough that I feel the question land in my chest.
Who are you going to be?
Champagne pops somewhere near the DJ booth. The room smells of citrus, cologne, and money.
Westfield’s hand leaves my shoulder as he turns toward the stage. He glides up the steps with a glass in his hand, one palm raised like he’s blessing the place.
My fingers slide into my pocket. I pull out the notecard, unfold it halfway.
I’m honored to stand here tonight…
I fold it back up and shove it deep into my jacket pocket.
The DJ cuts the music. The room hushes.
“Friends. Partners. Council…,” Westfield begins.
A buzzing fills my ears, drowning him out as he works the room. Fragmented shit jabs through the haze, and I catch phrases like standards of excellence, investment in community, and—his favorite—the future Whistler deserves. The whole time, he tips his glass to the room in mock-toast.
My teeth grind. I watch as he angles towards me with an outstretched arm.
“…and no one embodies that future more than our own…” Westfield continues, building up each word like a game show host, dragging out each syllable of my name, “Gaaabriel Castellano! Everyone, please join me in welcoming Gabriel to the stage.”
Polite applause ripples through the lounge. Softer than it should be for a room this packed. A few months ago, my name would’ve brought the crowd to their feet. Now there’s a half-second lag.
I scan the faces one last time. Holt is arms crossed, posture still as a post, watching me with a captain’s intensity. Thompson stands stiffly near the edge of the tech booth, Delilah leaning against its draped table as if bracing for impact.
And Ivy.
She’s got one hand braced on the bar now, weight shifted forward. Her hazel eyes are locked on me.
I’ve been trying not to look at her all night. I keep doing it anyway.
That’s the whole problem, isn’t it?
Westfield turns, a glimmer of pride shining in his eyes as he offers the mic.
I step up the stairs, coming to stand beside him.
“Cards,” he murmurs under his breath.
The stage lights hit my face, hot and blinding. I take the mic from Westfield. Cold metal. Heavy in my hand. The speakers hum under my grip, a low-frequency vibration that travels straight up my arm.
Westfield stands half a step behind me, close enough to touch. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the pressure of his expectation like a physical weight.
I pull the notecard out of my pocket. Unfold it. Hold it up where the light can find it.
“I’m honored to stand here tonight in a building that represents the future Whistler deserves.” My own voice comes back off the speakers. Flat. Broadcast-clean. The one I use between periods. “That’s the first line. There are eleven more.”
A sound slips out of me. Short, flat. It hits the mic and comes back through the speakers, harsh and metallic. Somebody laughs, unsure if it’s a bit.
“I’m supposed to read these.” I hold the card up between two fingers. “Supposed to stand up here and tell you this place represents community. The future of Whistler hockey. But you all know that’s bullshit.”