Chapter Two
The Off-Season Playbook
Chase
The off-season is supposed to be relaxing.
It’s supposed to be the time when I get to kick back, sleep in, hit the golf course, hang with my bros, and not think about anything other than which beer to crack open first.
Instead? I’ve got team management breathing down my neck, a contract negotiation looming, and a PR problem that apparently needs solving.
I rub a hand down my face as I lean against the kitchen counter, staring at my phone. The screen is lit up with notifications—texts, DMs, a few missed calls.
A handful of them are from the team. My agent. A reporter I definitely do not feel like talking to.
And a few? A few are from women whose names I probably should have saved but didn’t.
I could text one of them back.
It would be easy. Mindless. A distraction from the weight pressing against my ribs, the quiet frustration I can’t seem to shake.
Instead, I sigh and push my phone aside.
“Looks like it’s just you and me for the summer, bud,” I say, glancing down at my dog, Rip. He blinks up at me, completely uninterested in my personal crisis, before flopping onto the floor with a sigh.
I smirk, bending down to scratch behind his ears. “You’d make a terrible therapist, you know that?”
He thumps his tail, then immediately rolls onto his back, demanding belly rubs.
I shake my head. “Needy.”
Not that I can talk. My team’s been on my case about this whole marketability thing since the playoffs ended.
I get it—I really do. The Stampede want a captain they can slap on billboards and use in commercials, and apparently, my reputation still screams reckless playboy who doesn’t take anything seriously.
It doesn’t matter that I haven’t been that guy for a while now. The narrative has already been written, and if I want that letter sewn on my sweater next season, I need to change it.
Fast.
I grab my keys and pat Rip on the head. “Be good. Try not to eat the couch again.”
He yawns in response.
I roll my eyes and head out, ready to meet Bennett for a beer. Maybe I’ll get some actual advice from the guy, considering he managed to turn his whole image around last year.
Or, at the very least, maybe he’ll buy the first round.
When I arrive at the bar, I immediately spot Bennett at a high-top table near the back, nursing a pint and watching me like he already knows I’m in a mood.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” he calls, smirking as I drop onto the stool across from him.
I scowl. “Relax, Dad. I’m, like, three minutes late.”
Bennett lifts his beer. “Three minutes closer to me watching you spiral over this whole ‘grow up and be responsible’ thing.”
I grunt, waving down the waitress for my own drink. “I’m not spiraling.”
“Right.” He takes a sip. “That’s why you look like you just found out Santa isn’t real.”
I flip him off, and he grins.
“Let me guess,” he continues, clearly enjoying himself. “The team’s on your ass. Your agent won’t stop calling. And somewhere in that cluttered brain of yours, you’re wondering if sleeping with the head of PR would just make this all go away.”
I snort. “That last part isn’t true.”
Bennett raises a brow.
“…Probably.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Look, man, this isn’t complicated. You want to clean up your image? Show the team you’re leadership material? Do what I did. Play nice with the book club crowd.”
He’s talking about The Stampede’s Romance Book Club—a ridiculous PR stunt that turned into a thing two years ago.
What started as a way to make the team more marketable to female fans ended up blowing up in the best way possible.
The league ate it up, the fans loved it, and Bennett—who was supposed to be the face of the whole operation—went and fell for Lucy Quinn, the snarky sports blogger who gave him hell at every turn.
Now, once a month, a group of professional hockey players get together to seriously discuss romance novels with the readers, complete with livestreams, viral memes, and more fan engagement than the damn Stanley Cup Finals.
It should be embarrassing.
But somehow? It’s not.
And worse? Bennett’s right. It did wonders for his career.
The dude’s an absolute golden boy in the league now. Practically walks on water.
I scowl. “Yeah, well, I don’t need some fake PR romance book club to fix my rep,” I mutter, taking a sip of my beer.
He smirks. “You sure? Because it would do wonders for your dating life.”
I scoff. “My dating life is fine.”
He levels me with a look. “Dude, your dating life is a rotating door.”
I glare. “It’s the off-season. I should be able to have some fun without it being a scandal.”
Bennett sighs. “Look, I’m just saying—you’re a great player.
But the team wants more than that from you now.
You’ve been around a couple of years. They want a guy who can lead, who can represent the franchise.
” He lifts a brow. “You really gonna blow your shot at captaincy because you can’t stop being you for five minutes? ”
I open my mouth, then shut it.
Damn it.
I hate when he makes sense.
I rub the back of my neck, annoyed. “I just need to get out of Dallas for a bit. Clear my head. Figure out what’s next.”
Bennett leans back, intrigued. “Where you headed?”
“Michigan.” I exhale, already picturing it. “Grew up outside of Grand Rapids, spent summers on the lake. I rented a place there for a month. Should be quiet, no distractions. Just me and Rip.”
“No distractions,” Bennett echoes, smirking. “You? Alone? With nothing to do but think?”
I scowl. “I can be alone.”
He chuckles. “Sure. Just make sure you don’t go full existential crisis up there. I don’t want to get a call saying you’ve abandoned hockey and opened a bait shop or something.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll be fine.”
Bennett hums. “You could make it more interesting. Join the book club, woo some hockey moms, do a little self-reinvention.”
I deadpan. “Hard pass.”
He just smirks. “Fine. But when you come back in a month still trying to prove you’re not a reckless, commitment-phobic wildcard, don’t say I didn’t try to help.”
I grunt and work on finishing my beer.
Michigan will be good for me.
No distractions. No PR nightmares. No bull.
Just me, the lake, and a much-needed break.
What could possibly go wrong?