6. Cassy
Chapter six
Cassy
A s I enter Valerie’s office, the door clicks shut behind me, a soft snick that feels way too official for this time of the morning.
I’ve got my laptop balanced on one hip, a half-finished iced Americano clutched in my other hand, and an outfit that definitely says; I'm trying but I might also punch someone today.
Valerie’s already deep in email territory, tapping away at her keyboard like the fate of the world hangs on a well-placed semicolon. Without looking up, she gestures to the seat across from her desk.
“Thanks for coming in, Cassy. I wanted to update you on something before we go public with it.”
I drop into the chair, legs crossed, rest my cup on her desk, and flip open my laptop. “Okay. Go on.”
She leans forward, clasping her hands on the desk in that very calm but about-to-ruin-your-morning way.
“Following the sad passing of Thomas Keegan, or Thumper as he was known…” Her voice doesn’t crack, but it softens, just slightly.
“…this morning, after a long meeting, your father, Jake Mathews, GM, the coaching staff, and the entire team, held a vote.”
My eyebrow lifts. “A vote? For what?”
She nods once. “For the new vacant position of Las Vegas Aces captain.”
My fingers hover over my laptop keys. “Oh—okay.”
Valerie’s watching me like she’s evaluating my blood pressure through my eyes. “And that means we need to start prepping immediately.”
She continues. “You’ll be responsible for organizing the press event, coordinating media strategies, scheduling interviews, and handling social campaigns.”
“Right, got it.” I type a few notes, then pause and look up. “Wait, who IS the new captain?”
Valerie blinks at me like I just asked if water was wet, then lets out a soft, almost apologetic laugh.
“Oh, sorry. Thought I mentioned it.” She leans back, her tone suddenly breezy. “Blake Mitchell.”
My eyes narrow just a fraction. “Blake Mitchell?” I sigh out an “Okay,” but it's not the kind that means okay. It's the kind that means great, I’ll be screaming into a pillow later.
I’ve handled a lot in my life. Got a PR degree from Columbia. Survived a two-week blackout launch in Barcelona with no translator and three athletes who thought ‘media blackout’ meant ‘go wild on Instagram.’ I’ve dealt with egos, meltdowns, and literal flames. But this? This is next-level.
Blake freaking Mitchell. The one-night Adonis bed partner who ghosted me. Just great!
I tilt my head, tapping my finger against the side of the keyboard. “That’s… interesting.”
What I really mean is: So, how’s this one gonna work?
Valerie starts typing again. “He should be meeting you in your office in about half an hour to go over everything with you.”
Of course, he should.
“I’m on it.” I snap my laptop shut and stand, adjusting my bag on my shoulder, completely forgetting about my iced Americano. Glance at the clock. Thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes with Blake Mitchell.
Shit.
“Look,” Valerie says, her tone softening again. “I know you’re new here, but good luck. And I’m counting on you.”
I nod, mouth forming a smile that’s maybe five percent sincere, and walk out of her office.
Good luck... Yeah. I'm going to need it.
I power-stride down the corridor like I’ve got a fire to put out, laptop clutched tight to my side, stilettos sharp enough to wound.
Out of all the damn players, it had to be him. Blake Mitchell.
Because clearly, the universe likes a good joke. Just be professional and forget all about that night. The heat. The tension. The stupid way my breath caught when he touched my—
Nope. Not going there. Brain, shut it down. Focus. Press event, interviews, social strategy. That’s all that matters now.
I barely have time to process before I spot Riley pacing outside my office, casually scrolling through her tablet.
“Quick, Riley! Get in here. I need you.”
She looks up, instantly catching the tone, and moves fast. She slips into my office with me, the door shutting quietly behind us.
“What’s going on?”
I drop my laptop on the desk and blow out a breath like it’ll somehow cool the flames already licking up my insides. “Big news. Blake Mitchell is the Aces’ new captain.”
Riley blinks like I just told her unicorns exist. “Seriously? That’s… unexpected. How’s he taking it?”
“No idea. He’ll be in here in about twenty minutes.” I pull out my chair and sit, fingers already flying across the keyboard. “So, that means we need to get moving now. Press event, media coordination, interviews, social campaigns, the whole nine yards.”
Riley’s already swiping to a new note on her tablet, thumbs poised for war.
“First,” I say, not looking up. “We need Musa, Gretchen, and Holly working on a video package, highlights of Blake’s best moments, leadership on ice, and behind-the-scenes clips. We need something that sells him as captain.”
“Yeah, visuals will be key,” Riley types fast. “Fans will need to feel the shift. Plus, he’s certainly got the looks.” She glances up at me with a too-innocent smile.
I don’t take the bait. “Um… yes, well. Next, Tarquin and Suzanna in PR need to finalize the official announcement statement. It has to frame Blake as the natural choice, why him, what he brings, why he fits.”
“Good call. It’ll set the narrative right from the start.”
I nod, flipping through a few tabs. “Then Calam needs to get new promo shots—studio and candid locker-room images. We’ll need material for social media, press releases, and interviews.”
“Agreed,” Riley says, not missing a beat. “It needs to feel polished but personal. Plus, the fans love him.”
“Andrew in PR will coordinate media requests, interviews, feature pieces, and podcasts. We need to make sure Blake’s schedule doesn’t overwhelm him.”
“Definitely. Keeping things structured will be huge.”
“And Michael and Torro will need to oversee external messaging. Every official statement has to align.”
“Got it.” Riley pauses, glancing up. “So, what’s the game plan when Blake walks in?”
Knock-knock.
Damn. He’s early.
I don’t move. “Come in.”
Riley stands, smoothing her skirt just as the door opens.
“Okay. I’m on it.” She walks past him like she didn’t just share a knowing look with me five seconds ago.
“Blake, I’m so pleased for you,” she adds, tone bright as a lightbulb, and then she’s gone, closing the door behind her.
And then it’s just me. And him.
I keep it clipped and professional, like I don’t have a perfect view of the way his t-shirt strains around those shoulders. “Sit down. And congratulations, Captain.”
“Thanks.” Blake walks in like he owns oxygen. He sits, then leans forward, one hand resting casually on his knee. A piece of his usually-perfect ash blond hair flops over one eye. “But obviously, I wish it were under different circumstances. Not even sure if I’m the right choice for captain.”
I fold my hands on the desk, respecting the enormity of Thumper’s absence. “Yes. We all wish it were under different circumstances. But you were voted for. That means you are the right choice.”
He huffs a breath, not quite a sigh. “Yeah, suppose so.”
I lean back and click open the strategy deck Riley just sent. “So, here’s what this means. You’re now the face of the franchise. That means press, interviews, community events, school visits, fundraisers, and fan engagement. You won’t just play the games, you’ll sell them. Think you can do this?”
He straightens, and something shifts in his expression. Like the doubt’s still there, but he’s already chosen to outrun it.
“Yes. I’m ready,” he says. “I’ll do whatever’s necessary.”
“Good.” I swivel the monitor slightly toward me, scrolling through the media strategy.
“Tomorrow’s press conference is the first big step.
It’ll be a formal setup. Podium. Media seating.
You’ll make a statement, then we’ll move into a controlled Q&A.
You don’t need to be charming. You just need to be clear.
Don’t overshare. No off-script moments.”
He nods slowly, eyes lifting to meet mine again. And just for a second, there’s a pause. Like neither of us is pretending to be made of Teflon anymore.
I blink first. Shift in my seat, click a folder.
“I want you to watch this.” My voice is quieter now. “Come here.”
He rises without a word and walks around the desk. His movements are calm, deliberate, and measured, but when he leans down beside me to watch the screen, I can feel the heat rolling off him like a furnace in slow motion. His hand rests on the desk next to mine.
The screen lights up with Thumper. His voice fills the room. Commanding. Confident. Loved.
Blake watches, expression unreadable.
The scent of him hits me, sharp, smoky, masculine. Expensive without trying too hard. It's unfair, honestly. I should be given hazard pay.
A ping breaks the moment. My inbox lights up, Riley, with the schedule.
Damn, that girl’s good.
I open it, then flip the tabs, pulling it over the video.
“These just came in. Look.”
He leans in closer, he doesn’t need to, there’s enough screen, but I don’t stop him. Our shoulders brush. His breath fans near my cheek, and if he shifts an inch closer, we’ll be in dangerous territory.
I keep it steady. Bullet point mode.
“Key interviews across the next two weeks. Some national, some local. You'll be looped into several social campaigns, mental health in youth hockey, sustainability, and the new sponsor rollout. And as I said, the first formal press event is tomorrow morning.”
“When?” he asks, eyes still on the screen.
“Nine am sharp. Conference Hall. Podium, seating for the press. It’ll be handled by Andrew, he manages direct media interaction.”
He squints, scanning the calendar. “Of course. Andrew.”