Chapter 8 Brody
Eight
Brody
I make the defensive play look easy—reading Tyler’s approach two steps ahead, positioning myself where the puck’s going to be before he even releases it, cutting off the angle with the kind of precision that’s been eluding me for weeks.
“Nice, Kane!” Coach Jacobsen calls from the boards.
I tap my stick on the ice, already tracking the next play.
My reads are sharper today. Positioning’s more solid. The defensive slump that’s been plaguing me since November?
All right, that’s still there.
But something’s different.
I can feel it—the way I’m reading the ice better, moving with more confidence, no longer second-guessing every decision. It’s not fixed. Not even close. But it’s…better.
Maybe I’m more relaxed. Maybe having one less crisis to manage—the image crisis finally down to a dull roar—freed up enough mental space that I can actually focus on hockey.
Or maybe it’s something else entirely.
Something I’m not ready to examine too closely.
I execute another decent defensive sequence. Not perfect, but competent. Wyatt makes the save behind me, nodding approval through his mask. Tyler skates past, grinning.
“Looking good out there, Kane.”
I don’t respond. Just reset for the next drill.
Practice continues. Drills, scrimmages, the familiar rhythm of skates against ice, sticks hitting pucks, Coach’s whistle cutting through it all.
By the time practice is called, I’m feeling something I haven’t felt in weeks.
Capable.
Not great. Not dominant. Not the player I used to be.
But capable.
It’s a start.
“Kane!” Coach waves me over as we’re clearing the ice. “Got a sec?”
I skate over, pulling off my helmet. “Yeah, Coach?”
“Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.” He’s got that look—stern, but approving. “Your gap control is still too loose, among other things, but it’s an improvement.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“Still a ways to go, but”—he pauses—“you’re looking a little more settled. Less…in your own head.”
Settled.
Interesting word choice.
“I’ve been working on it,” I say. How exactly is having a fake girlfriend helping my real hockey game? Your guess is as good as mine.
He claps my shoulder. “Well, keep working. We need you sharp for playoffs.”
“Yes, sir.”
The locker room is the usual chaos—guys stripping off gear, heading for showers, arguing about last night’s NFL game. I’m pulling off my jersey when Tyler drops onto the bench beside me.
“So. Chloe.”
“What about her?”
“She coming to Friday’s game?”
I hesitate. Chloe’s not exactly the sports kind of girl. But then again…that’s what a real girlfriend would do…right? Feels like a trap. I flash a smile. “Yeah, I don’t know. She’s got a lot going on with her sister’s wedding.”
“Well, tell her she should come.” He grins. “You’ve been less miserable lately. Whatever she’s doing, it’s working.”
I stuff my jersey in my locker without response.
“Seriously, man. You’ve been wound tight for months. It’s nice to see you loosening up.”
“I’m still the same person, Torch.”
“Yeah, but you’re not walking around like the world’s about to end anymore. So…are you really?”
“Ouch.” I grimace, feigning injury.
He chuckles as he heads for the showers.
I sit there with my gear half off, his words sitting uncomfortably in my chest.
Am I different?
Less miserable?
I haven’t thought about it. Haven’t had the time. I’ve been too busy trying not to set my career on fire, juggling the constant calculation of what’s real and what’s tactical between Chloe and me.
But maybe he’s right.
Maybe something is working.
Now I just need to make sure, when things with Chloe come to a crashing halt, that it doesn’t disappear.
I pull off my skates. Toss them in my locker. Head for the showers too.
The hot water feels good against sore muscles. I let myself stand under the spray, let the water rush over me, quiet my mind. I let the game fade away, the contract, my renewal, my reputation…all of it. And then I’m back to Chloe…
To our date, tonight.
Seven p.m., Barcelona Wine Bar. Reservation for two.
A real date. That’s what I called it, but it’s more like recon work. A chance to get to know Chloe on a deeper level. Make us convincing enough that Derek backs off and our next event doesn’t turn into an execution.
And maybe—maybe—figure out what I’m actually doing here.
I’m dressed and heading out—jeans, Henley, leather jacket—when someone steps into my path.
Derek.
“Kane.” His voice is flat. “We need to talk.”
My stomach drops, but I manage to keep my expression neutral. “Yeah? About what?”
“Don’t play dumb with me.” He steps closer. “This whole thing you’ve got going on with Chloe, it’s got to stop. I don’t know what kind of scheme you’re running—”
“Scheme?” My voice is level, but my heart is pounding. “What are you talking about?”
“You show up out of nowhere with Maya’s sister, and suddenly you’re this devoted boyfriend?” His voice drops low, seething with disdain. “A week after the news breaks that you’re not the charmer everyone thinks you are? You need her. I’m not an idiot, Kane.”
“There’s no scheme, Derek. Chloe and I are together. We reconnected a few weeks back and—”
“Save it.” He cuts me off. “I don’t know what your angle is, but I’m watching. And if you hurt her—if this is some publicity stunt and she gets caught in the crossfire—I will make your life miserable. On the ice and off it.”
The threat hangs in the cold air between us.
I fight the urge to push back, tell him to back off. But the words die in my throat.
He’s not wrong.
This is an arrangement. A mutually beneficial agreement with contracts and NDAs and payments.
And if he knew that, well, you saw the contract. My career would be over.
So I lie.
Sort of.
“I’m not playing games with her,” I say quietly. And that part, at least, feels true. “I care about her. I’m not going to hurt her.”
That one is true.
“You better not.” He steps past me, heading back toward the locker room.
I should let it go, but—
“What’s your problem, Derek? Why are you so against this?” I keep my voice low, but it holds an edge. “Did I do something to you in a previous life?”
Derek stills, glancing over his shoulder, his eyes dark in the tunnel light. “The fact that you don’t know is exactly why.”
He keeps walking. Leaving me standing in the empty tunnel with my heart still racing and absolutely no idea what just happened.
What don’t I know?
What am I missing?
I stand there for another minute, trying to piece it together.
Nothing.
Finally, I give up, head out the tunnel. I’m almost to my car when the Blue Ox social media and PR coordinator, Felicity, calls from behind me. It’s never a good idea to stop and acknowledge her. Trust me on this. “Brody! Got a second?”
I don’t stop, just turn around and keep walking backward. “Yeah, what’s up?”
She’s running up to me. “I saw the photos from Saturday night. You two look great together.” She’s got her tablet out, scrolling. “Very natural. The bowling pictures especially—people are eating it up.”
I slow. “That’s good.”
“It is. And I’ve been thinking…” She looks up. “Chloe’s event planning business. I did some research. She’s got a great eye—those decorations Saturday were professional level. But she’s struggling to break through, right? Small client base, not a lot of visibility.”
I nod slowly.
“I’d like to help,” Felicity says. “I have a few friends in the wedding and events industry who could shine a light on her business. Maybe give her a boost.”
I study her, looking for the catch.
But her expression is genuine. Professional.
Kind.
“That would be great,” I say finally. “I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”
“Perfect. I’ll reach out to her directly.” She smiles. “Have a good night, Brody.”
She’s gone before I can respond.
I throw my gear bag in the Shelby’s trunk. Slide into the driver’s seat.
Just sit.
The leather is cold. Dashboard dark.
My phone buzzes.
Multiple texts.
Rick
Saw the party photos. Good work.
Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m good at this game.
Right. But Chloe makes it easy.
Another text.
Rick
Ashley Morrison’s lawyer sent another letter. Wants public apology and admission of wrongdoing. They’re threatening to file if you don’t comply. DO NOT apologize. It’ll just create more tabloid drama and make you look guilty. Keep the relationship with Chloe solid. That’s your best defense.
My chest tightens.
A public apology.
An admission of wrongdoing.
For something I didn’t do.
If I apologize, it validates her lie. Makes me look guilty. The tabloids will destroy me.
If I don’t, she files suit. A lawsuit means depositions, discovery, media circus. She doesn’t have a case. But sometimes that doesn’t matter.
I let my head fall back against the seat.
I’ve got four hours until my date with Chloe. And I gotta make this one count.
I start the engine. Drive home through the gray January afternoon.
All I can think is Don’t screw this up.
CHLOE
This is a terrible idea.
I’m standing in front of my closet, staring at hangers holding approximately three outfits that could maybe pass for “date night,” and wondering what possessed me to agree to this.
Oh, right.
Twenty thousand dollars and crushing financial desperation.
Very romantic.
“I can hear you thinking from here,” Jessa calls from the couch without looking up from her laptop. “Stop spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re absolutely spiraling.”
I pull out a black dress. Put it back. Pull out a burgundy sweater. Put it back.
“It’s just dinner,” I say. More to myself than to her. “Casual. Low-key. A basic first date, except with less pressure…because it’s not real. So. What’s there to spiral about?”
“Uh-huh.” Jessa’s still typing. “And the fact that you’ve been standing in front of that closet for twenty minutes has nothing to do with Brody’s kiss the other night?”
My face goes hot. “No! It. Does. Not.”
“Oh, please, you came in here like you’d just stolen your first kiss, all grinning and breathless.”
“I did not.”