Chapter 6 Brody
Six
Brody
The Xcel Energy Center locker room smells like sweat, wintergreen balm, and desperation—and tonight I’m contributing to all three.
Around me, guys are going through their own routines: Tyler’s got his headphones in, nodding to whatever pump-up playlist he’s running. Wyatt’s methodically taping his goalie stick, the rip of athletic tape punctuating the low hum of conversation.
I’m lacing up my skates for the third time because my hands won’t stop shaking and I keep getting the tension wrong. The familiar ritual—cross the laces, pull tight, double knot—feels foreign tonight.
Professional. Controlled. Candy Kane doing his pregame routine.
Except my phone keeps buzzing in my equipment bag, the vibration rattling against my helmet, and I can’t stop checking it.
Three days since she agreed to the deal.
Two days until I have to show up at her sister’s party and convince an entire room full of people that I’m the devoted boyfriend, while Derek—her sister’s fiancé, my teammate—watches every move I make, as if looking for cracks in the performance.
He’s got a burr under his jersey, and for some reason, it’s me.
“Kane.” Coach Jacobsen’s voice cuts through my spiral like a blade on ice.
I look up. He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his Blue Ox–branded quarter-zip, already disappointed. He’s got that look—Jacobsen’s been coaching for twenty years, has a Stanley Cup ring from his playing days, and can smell weakness from across the rink.
“Yes, sir.” I flash the smile. The one that’s gotten me out of trouble since junior hockey. “Ready to go.”
He studies me for a long moment, gaze narrowing. Yeah…he’s not buying it.
I’m not sure I would either.
“Your defensive play has been off for two weeks. Tonight’s the night you fix it. We clear?”
“Crystal.”
He walks away, and of course the locker room goes quiet as a church. Oh goody, everyone heard that.
I finish with my skates, and when my phone buzzes again, I pull it out.
Rick
Contract ready. Need you to review before I send to her. Call me after the game.
Something in my chest tightens. The contract is ready. The contract that turns this crazy plan into something legally binding. Something real.
I wish.
There’s no time to look at it though. I toss my phone into the locker and head for the tunnel. The muffled roar of the crowd echoes off the cinderblock walls, the cool rink air seeping in, and with it, the distinct arena smell—ice, popcorn, beer, and possibility.
The arena is maybe half full. It’s a Thursday night game against the Seattle Firebirds, a team we should beat easily.
The seats are a patchwork of Blue Ox jerseys peppered with some of the black-and-orange of the Firebirds.
A handful of dedicated fans bang on the glass during warm-ups, their faces pressed against the plexiglass like kids at an aquarium.
I warm up with the team, take to the box, listen to the coaches. And most importantly, absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent do not think about the contract. Or about Saturday. About walking into that party with Chloe on my arm. About Derek’s scrutiny. About her family’s questions.
No sir. I’m not thinking about any of that.
I’m on the first line, of course. The puck drops with a hollow crack that echoes through the arena.
I’m supposed to be marking their center, Jenkins, a journeyman player who’s been in the league for eight years. Instead, I’m half a step behind, thinking about the contract burning a hole in my phone.
Jenkins blows past me like I’m standing still. His skates spray ice crystals, and I turn to see him shoot—a wrist shot that sails toward the net. Wyatt makes the save, but barely, his glove hand flashing out at the last second.
“Kane!” Coach Jacobsen’s voice from across the ice, cutting through the organ music and scattered applause. “Wake up!”
I grit my teeth and reset, taking my position at the blue line. Bang the ice with my stick.
Focus! Contract or no, you’re gonna be out of a job if you can’t get it together.
But two plays later, their winger is open because I drifted too far left, chasing a pass that was never coming. Derek has to cover for me, abandoning his position to prevent a breakaway.
The other defenseman, Conrad Kingston (King Con—why didn’t I get a name like that?), skates past me during a line change, catches my eye as we tap gloves. The look is clear: Get your head in the game.
The period ends scoreless, but we’re being outshot 11–7.
In the locker room, the mood is tense. Guys strip off their gloves, grab water bottles from the coolers, towel off sweat. The coaching staff huddles near the whiteboard, drawing up adjustments with squeaky markers. Coach Jacobsen pulls me aside.
“What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” I take a long drink from my water bottle, avoiding his eyes.
“You’re playing like your head is somewhere else.”
“Just an off night. I’ll adjust.”
He looks at me like he’s deciding whether to bench me or give me one more chance. In the background, the assistant coaches talk strategy.
“Fix it.” It’s not a request.
I sit down at my stall and drop my head, sweat beading across my neck. My phone rattles across the locker, setting my nerves even more on edge. That contract’s going to be the death of my career before I even get a chance to look at it.
I can’t stop myself. I grab the phone.
New text from Rick:
Rick
Sent you the contract. The Blue Ox management had an update to Section 7. It’s important. Read it after the game.
After the game, Brody. Now’s not the time.
Not a chance.
I open the attachment. The PDF loads slowly. Legal language, clauses, payment schedules. I scroll to Section 7, and my stomach drops like I’ve just hit a patch of bad ice.
Section 7: Morality and Conduct Clause
Both parties agree to maintain the appearance of a genuine romantic relationship through all wedding events.
Upon completion of the Wedding (Event #4), both parties will execute a staged public breakup at the Wedding Reception (Event #5), with Party B (Chloe Dawson) initiating the breakup and Party A (Brody Kane) positioned as “at fault,” followed by a mandatory thirty-day no-contact period.
Any premature breakup, exposure of the contractual nature of the relationship, or other deviation from this termination plan will result in forfeiture of all benefits: Party A loses NHL contract renewal, and Party B forfeits all payment and owes financial penalties.
Furthermore, in the event that Player’s relationship with Ms. Dawson is proven to be fraudulent, staged, or undertaken primarily for publicity purposes, the following penalties shall apply immediately:
(a) Contract termination without severance
(b) Repayment of signing bonus in full ($547,000)
(c) Forfeiture of all future salary obligations
(d) Two-year non-compete clause preventing Player from signing with any NHL team
I read that all again. Then a third time.
This isn’t just losing the contract. This is losing my entire career.
If anyone proves the relationship is fake—Derek, a reporter, anyone—I’m done with professional hockey. For two years minimum. Two years is an eternity in sports. Players retire, teams rebuild, opportunities disappear. I’d be thirty when I could come back. Ancient in hockey years.
“You good, Kane?” Tyler has grabbed up his helmet. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. “You look like you’re gonna blow chunks.”
“I’m fine.” I lock my phone, force the smile. Completely fine. “Let’s get back out there.”
The second period is worse.
I’m cataloging every way this could blow up. What if Chloe sees the contract and panics? Or a reporter asks too many questions at the meet-and-greet party.
I miss an assignment. Their winger—Martinez, a rookie with a wicked slap shot—is standing alone in the high slot, exactly where I should have picked him up. The pass comes across, clean and hard. He one-times it.
Goal.
The red light behind Wyatt explodes in rotation, sirens wailing. The goal horn blares—that deep, resonating sound that means failure. The visiting team celebrates, gloves and sticks raised, while our home crowd groans in disappointment.
Coach calls a timeout. Glares at me across the ice. The team huddles around him at the bench, but his eyes are lasered on me the entire time he’s talking strategy. Then, as I get up—
“Kane, you’re done. Anderson, take his spot.”
I’ve been benched.
Seriously?
Conrad catches my eye from the ice during a stoppage. We’re talking after this.
Fantastic. Now I’ve got a pep talk to look forward to from Coach and King Con.
Third period. Coach doesn’t put me back in. I watch from the bench as the game slips away—another Firebirds goal at 8:34, then an empty netter with thirty seconds left when we pull Wyatt for the extra attacker.
We lose 3–2.
The final buzzer sounds like a death knell. The arena empties quickly, disappointed fans filtering up the stairs, leaving behind scattered popcorn containers and crushed beer cups. The ice is torn up, scarred with the record of the game.
In the locker room after, nobody looks at me. Guys strip off their gear. Shin guards hit the floor. Jerseys get tossed into the laundry bins. The usual post-game energy has been drowned out by tense silence. The only sounds are zippers, Velcro, and the occasional muttered curse.
Derek glances at me from two stalls down. “Congrats on the new girlfriend, Kane. Interesting timing.”
I look up, my chest tightening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He pulls off his jersey, revealing the compression shirt beneath, dark with sweat. “Just noticed you’ve been off your game for weeks. Then suddenly, you’ve got a girlfriend.”
“My personal life is none of your business.”
“It is when it affects the team.” He crosses his arms. “And when it involves my fiancée’s sister.”
Oh, this will be fun.