Chapter 3 #2
“You sure?” He sits on the bench across from me, not quite close enough to be in my space, but close enough to be annoying.
Torch has this thing where he thinks if he just keeps showing up, keeps trying, eventually people will let him in.
It’s worked for him his whole career—he’s the glue guy, the one everyone likes.
“We could grab food after this. Decompress. Talk—”
“I said I’m fine, Torch.”
The temperature in my voice drops about forty degrees, and Tyler rocks back, brows lifted.
“All right.” He stands, shoves his hands in his hoodie pocket. “I’m just trying to help. The Candy I know would have snapped back by now, given me a hard time already about”—he shrugs—“I don’t know, my hair looking like I stuck my finger in an outlet or something. This isn’t you.”
“Well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
The words come out colder than I intended. Tyler’s face hardens, and he walks away without another word.
Great.
Add him to the list of bridges I’m burning.
Someone clears their throat behind me. I cast a glance over my shoulder. Conrad Kingston leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Con’s been in the league longer than most of us have been alive—or at least, it feels that way. Six foot, broad shoulders, dark blond-reddish hair and beard.
His fiancée is Penelope Pepper—better known as Penny, the murder podcaster, which means nothing goes under the radar with her around. Which also means Con definitely knows about the tabloid situation.
Great.
“Listen, Kane.” His voice is calm. Measured. “This thing’ll blow over. Until then, you gotta keep your head down and in the game.”
I want to tell him to mind his own business. Deflect. Anything to get him—and everyone else—off my back. Instead, I do exactly what he says. I keep my head down and nod.
Con waits a beat as though expecting something more, then walks away.
I head for the showers before anyone else decides to weigh in on my performance today.
The water is scalding. Steam fills the space, turning everything hazy. I press my forehead against the tile, close my eyes, and try to drown out the headlines in my head.
Brody “Candy” Kane’s Sweet Talk Hides Cold Heart, Says Victim
Is This the Real Candy Kane? Woman Exposes Dark Side of Hockey Charmer
My mind flashes again to Chloe, standing alone on the steps of her hotel, hurt etched in the lines of her face. Maybe the headlines are right.
By the time I emerge, most of the guys have cleared out, and I almost let out a sigh of relief as I pull on my dark jeans, a gray sweater, and leather boots. I look like I’m headed to a photoshoot instead of a parking lot confrontation.
Image. Always image. At this point, it’s probably the only thing that can save me.
I grab my keys and head for the door, walking through the narrow hallway back toward daylight.
Time to face the next disaster.
The parking lot is brutal. Blistering cold that hurts your face, gray, hopeless sky, snow piled in dirty mountains along the edges of the lot, wind that cuts through every layer.
And my car is parked—you guessed it—in the back. The black Ford Mustang Shelby GT500 gleams darkly against the ashy sky. Nothing fancy, but fast when I need it to be.
I’m almost there when someone steps into my path.
Rick Castellano. My agent.
Fortysomething, always in a suit that costs more than most people’s mortgage payment, carrying his iPad like it’s the tablet Moses brought down from Sinai.
Today’s sartorial selection is charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, and he’s wearing Italian leather shoes that have no business being in a Minnesota parking lot in January. He’s not even wearing a coat.
“We need to talk. Now.”
I don’t slow down. “Not in the mood, Rick.”
He falls into step beside me. “I don’t care. Look at this.”
He shoves the iPad in my face, and I stop walking, because I don’t have a choice.
The screen is filled with headlines:
Is Candy Kane’s Charm Just an Act?
Hockey’s Nice-Guy Image Shattered: Kane Faces Heartbreaker Allegations
Below the headlines are more photos, boosted, probably from Ashley’s Instagram account. I shrug. “It’ll blow over.” I hope.
“It might, if it weren’t for these.” He scrolls down the page and shows me more photos. Blurry, zoomed-in, clearly taken from someone’s social media and enhanced until they’re almost unrecognizable—but unmistakably me. And unmistakably her.
Chloe.
Six months ago. In Barcelona.
My chest tightens. “I thought that was taken care of.” Meaning Rick contacted the photographer, got an NDA, and the photos were taken down.
“Yeah, well, regardless how they got them, it’s not a good look, Brody. And now this Ashley girl is threatening legal action for emotional distress—”
“I barely talked to her!” I can feel my blood pressure rising. “We met at a gala. She said she was a professional sports blogger. I was being polite.”
“She said you were flirting. That you gave her your number—”
“Because she was going to send me her blog for approval.” I reach my car, set my duffel in the trunk. “She’s the one who’s been stalking me—”
“I know.” Rick holds up his hand. “Listen. There’s no doubt her legal case is weak—”
“Weak? I didn’t do anything!” And now there’s no candy left in my voice, and he looks around, just in case people are watching.
Let them. I’m so done playing the part while this girl tries to ruin my life over a smile.
Rick waits a beat, his eyes asking Are you finished? “It doesn’t matter, Brody. True or not—and you know I believe you—the team called. They want answers. Your performance is slipping, the press is having a field day, and management is losing patience.”
He looks behind me and lifts a hand. I turn. Oh goody, there’s a small crowd gathering near the fence. Fans. A family—two adults, three kids—wearing Blue Ox gear, all holding their phones.
“Candy! Hey, Candy Kane!”
“Can we get a picture?”
“Sign my jersey!”
I stare at Rick. “This. This is my life.”
“No, Candy. This is your life.” He holds up his phone and keeps scrolling, showing me comment after comment. Fake. Player. User. Just another athlete who thinks charm is a substitute for character.
“It’s tabloid garbage.” My voice sounds distant even to me. “It’ll blow over.”
“It won’t.” He stops on an article from ESPN.
A think piece about performative masculinity in professional sports.
My face is the thumbnail. “Your charm offensive worked for years—the smile, the perfect quotes, the fan engagement. But now they’re digging deeper.
They’re calling you fake, Brody. A performer.
Someone who uses people for image management. ”
I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat. “What do you want me to do?”
Rick stops scrolling. Looks at me like I’m particularly slow. “You need damage control. A girlfriend—real or fake, I don’t care—to prove you’re not just a charming smile with nothing behind it. Someone stable. Genuine. Makes you look human.”
I laugh. It comes out bitter, sharp. “You want me to hire someone to prove I’m real? You see the irony, right?”
“I see a client who’s about to lose his contract renewal because his head isn’t in the game and his reputation is in the swirl.
” His voice goes flat. Hard. The kind of tone that means he’s done negotiating.
“You have until Valentine’s Day. That gives you five weeks.
Find someone, make it convincing, get through the season with good press.
The charm’s not gonna do it for you this time. ”
Something in my chest cracks.
The fans are still calling. “Candy! Please! Just one picture!”
“And if I don’t?” My voice is barely above a whisper.
Rick just looks at me.
“Never mind,” I say.
“Good.” He turns and walks to his Mercedes. Black, sleek, idling near the exit like a getaway car. He pulls away without looking back.
And I’m left standing in the parking lot with the wind cutting through my jacket and voices calling my name like a Greek chorus of disappointment.
I don’t wave. Don’t smile. Don’t turn around.
Just get in my car and drive.
I drop my gym bag by the door, hockey tape and sweaty base layers and the smell of the rink gear spilling out across the hardwood of my South Minneapolis penthouse. It’s the only mess I allow. The only proof that I live here.
The rest of the apartment looks like a hotel room. You know, magazine-worthy.
Kitchen: spotless. Granite counters gleaming. No dishes in the sink because I haven’t cooked a meal in this place since I purchased it two years ago. The fridge hums quietly, filled with takeout containers I’ll probably throw away without eating and a six-pack of beer I never drink.
There’s a stack of unopened mail on the counter—bills, probably, mixed with promotional stuff from sponsors who think I’ll endorse their protein shakes or razors or whatever.
Living room: black leather couch—expensive, uncomfortable, barely sat on—facing a massive TV mounted on the wall. I use it for game tape. That’s it. No streaming services, no movie nights, no friends over for playoff games.
No friends.
I trudge through the apartment, every muscle aching, and sink onto the sofa.
My phone buzzes. Multiple missed calls. All from the same number.
Dad.
I should ignore it. Delete the voicemails without listening. Cut him off like I’ve threatened to do a hundred times.
Instead, I sit on my couch—leather creaking under me, cold even through my jeans—and press Play on my voicemail.
His voice fills the apartment. Slurred but warm. Friendly, even. The version of my father that shows up when he’s three drinks in and feeling nostalgic.
Please let him not be in a casino.
“Hey, buddy. It’s Dad.” A pause. Ice clinking in a glass. “I know you’re probably busy. Big game coming up, right? You’re doing great, son. Really great. Your mother would be so proud.”
My throat tightens.