Twenty-Eight
My back wakes up first.
Steel bar across the spine, cheap foam digging into ribs. Mouth dry. Air warm and stale, baked by the little heater in the corner and thick with sweat, sex, old paper.
And weight on my chest.
Real. Solid. Heavy in the best way.
Ivy.
Her cheek rests just under my collarbone, hair fanned messily across my skin. One hand lies curled over my sternum, fingers relaxed, knuckles pale.
For a second I don’t move. I just watch. Her breath ghosts over my skin, slow and even. The line between her eyebrows is gone. No bar face. No blade edge. Just a woman pressed into a guy on a lumpy pullout.
My ribs ache, but I don’t shift.
Something rattles once. Then again. Brrt. Brrt. Brrt.
My phone. On the floor.
It buzzes across the hardwood like it’s trying to crawl away.
I slide my free hand down her back, fingers skimming the warm line of her spine through the twisted sheet, and reach. My fingers brush the phone. It jumps out of reach with the next vibration.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
Second shot. I stretch farther, shoulder lifting her head a fraction. She makes a small noise and burrows closer, face pressing harder into my chest, but doesn’t wake.
The sight of her using me as a pillow tugs at my chest, making me smile. I stop myself from pulling her closer and avert my attention.
I hook the edge of the phone with two fingers and drag it up until I can grab it.
The screen blinds me. Too bright. Time stamp kicks me in the eyes.
9:06 a.m. Damn, I slept in.
The notification bar is a red wall. Messages stacked on messages. Group chats. Unknown numbers. My agent. The team thread.
My stomach knots.
Here we go. Fines. Suspension. Trade rumors. “Conduct unbecoming.”
I thumb it open anyway.
Top of the feed is Twitter. Or X. Whatever. App icon looks the same. My name sits up there with a little flame beside it.
A Spittin’ Chiclets clip sits near the top. Freeze?frame of me onstage, mouth open, mic in hand. Big white caption:
“CASTELLANO NUKES OWNER ON LIVE TV. LEGEND MOVE OR CAREER SUICIDE?”
Biz’s voice blasts out, too loud in the quiet office.
“Buddy walked into the lion’s den and lit a match. I respect the fuck outta that. Protect the little guy, I’m in.”
I jab the volume down, heart pounding.
Another clip. Someone slowed my “mascot” line, slapped text over it:
me: I am DONE being a mascot
also me: walks into PR event like a Bond villain
Audio is some moody alt?pop hook. The view counter sits in the millions.
TikToks of my face from every angle. One zooms on the yellowing bruise while subtitles roll:
when your boss wants you to smile while he screws your hometown bar
I scroll faster, waiting for the knives.
What I get is fire aimed outward. At Westfield. At Hickey. At the city.
Screenshots of the compliance order Ivy held up onstage, circled in red. Side?by?side photos of the Sin Bin champagne tower and a barstool at The Penalty Box. People calling the city council out by name.
One thread has my stat line under a screenshot of the speech.
with stats 6G–12A–18P, his biggest assist was blowing the whistle.
I almost put the phone down on that one.
Then I clock the quote tweet underneath.
cool speech bro, still a millionaire who ghosted a girl for seven years
My teeth grind. I read it twice. They’re not wrong.
I keep scrolling. The “shut up and play” crowd is there. The “who does he think he is” crowd. The people who want to talk about my contract instead of her bar. They’re there. They just drown under noise punching up, not down.
Further down, a screenshot of the two Reddit handles side by side with the caption: spot the difference. The view count is climbing in real time.
A shaky clip of Westfield’s face mid-“This is a misunderstanding—” has been looped and set to circus music. The investors crowding him, hands raised, mouths open. One commenter tagged the Whistler city council account directly: care to explain why your bylaw officer was at this party?
Braxton Hicks’s Sin Bin bio page is already cached and archived. Someone found his old team photo from the Capital City Crows. The backup goalie. Jersey eighty-two. The thread connecting those dots has four thousand retweets, and it’s not even ten o’clock.
A text notification pops over the top.
Darius (Agent): Sit tight. League involved. Do not talk to the press. Call when safe.
My fingers tighten on the phone. The pullout frame squeaks under the shift. Ivy makes a small sound, hand flexing once against my chest, then settles again.
I breathe out slow through my nose. Somewhere outside, a vehicle door slams. Then another. I barely clock it—New Year’s morning, tourists heading for the slopes.
I drag my gaze away from the screen and look at her instead.
Hair a mess. Mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes. Mouth soft.
Something tightens under my sternum.
Engines growl outside.
More than one.
Then tripod legs clack together. I know that sound from press lines and game?day scrums.
I go still, head tipped toward the door.
My chest tightens under Ivy’s ear.
“Ivy.” I nudge her shoulder gently. “Hayes. Wake up.”
She sucks in a sharp breath like she’s surfacing from deep water.
“What?” Voice rough.
“Media,” I murmur. “More than one crew, sounds like.”
Her whole body goes rigid before her eyes fly open. “Shit.”
She’s off my chest and on her feet in one motion. The sheet drops to her waist, then she remembers she’s half dressed and snatches it up.
“Turn around,” she snaps.
I do. Let her scramble into clothes while I jam my own life back on.
Dress shirt from the floor. Cold against skin.
It smells like sweat, cologne, and a hint of her.
Buttons mis-align twice before I get them right.
I yank on my trousers, toes catching in the cuff.
The tie’s curled on the chair; I loop it once around my neck and leave it loose.
Jacket from the back of the office chair, wrinkled, but better than nothing.
Behind me, denim zips. A T?shirt rustles. She curses under her breath.
“Of course it’s the Bon Jovi one,” she mutters.
I risk a glance. The silk dress is a dark puddle on the chair.
Ivy stands in ripped jeans and a black tee with a dagger through a heart, the text “You Give Love a Bad Name” written in all caps. She tugs the hem of the shirt down, then strides past me into the bar.
The light leaking around the window blinds is brighter now, mountain morning trying to sneak in. The heater hums on.
She stops by the front window and lifts one slat with two fingers. Her hair is shoveled into a knot, eyes already sharpening.
“Fuck,” she mutters.
I move beside her. She doesn’t push me away, just tilts the blind enough for both of us to see.
At least two news vans are parked crooked out front, backed up to the curb. One has a satellite dish popped like a metal mushroom. Reporters in parkas stand on the sidewalk, mics in hand, talking to cameras. A tech pans across the CLOSED sign, adjusting focus.
“…chaotic scenes at the Sin Bin launch… local fan favorite bar The Penalty Box now at the center of the story…”
Ivy lets the blind snap shut.
My fingers twitch.
Instinct is simple: open the door, step out, soak the hit. Give them something so they leave the building alone.
My hand finds the lock.
Ivy grabs my wrist.
“Don’t.”
“They want me,” I tell the glass. “I step out, they get their clip, they fuck off.”
“You step out, we become the backdrop.” She jerks her chin toward the sign. “You want my dad’s bar as your B?roll? They’ve already got the story written, Gabriel. ‘Disgraced player and bar girl who took down the empire.’ No thanks.”
Her grip is tight. Nails bite my skin through the cuff.
“What’s your plan then?” My voice comes out lower than I mean. “Hide under tables until the League calls?”
Her shoulders square.
“My plan is not letting them turn my front door into a press conference.”
She drops my wrist and checks the deadbolt. Then the chain. Then the side door.
Lockdown mode.
I back away from the glass on instinct, turning my body so I’m between the window and Ivy. She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t step around me.
My phone burns a rectangle in my pocket.
“We have to call someone,” I say. “Agent. NHLPA. Holt. Let them run interference before this turns into a circus.”
“It’s already a circus.” She drags a hand through her hair, then drops it like she remembers cameras can see silhouettes. Ivy stops pacing. Plants both hands on the bar top. The wood creaks under the force. “We need a plan before they—”
The first knock hits like a slap. Sharp, full?knuckle, right over the CLOSED sign.
Our heads whip toward the door.
Then a voice, bright and chipper in that fake?morning?show register, cuts through the glass. “Ms. Hayes? Mr. Castellano? Are you willing to make a statement this morning?”
The second knock follows fast. Less polite.
A male reporter announces: “Mr. Castellano, Sportsnet, CBC, and local outlets are all here. Fans are asking questions—”
Ivy sucks in a breath, her eyes meeting mine. Wide. Wild. Still more steel than fear. Before I can answer, metal scrapes from the kitchen. Sharp, wrong.
My head snaps toward it. Ivy’s already moving—not toward the sound but toward the baseball bat leaning against the wall, which tells me everything about where her mind just went.
The back deadbolt rattles hard. Impatient. Someone testing it.
Front door, back door. They’re circling.
I step in front of Ivy. She shoves past me.
Another rattle. Then a voice—low, urgent.
“Ivy. It’s me. Come on, before they swing the van this way.”
Ivy goes still for one full second. The bat stays against the wall.
Then her shoulders drop about two inches, and she crosses to the door, unlocks the deadbolt, and eases it open.
Delilah squeezes through the gap sideways, scarf half over her mouth, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. One hand still on the frame, the other latched onto a dark sleeve.
Brock ducks his head and shoulders in after her, toque dusted with snow, breath fogging.