Chapter 15 Brody
Fifteen
Brody
In approximately two hours, this contract between Chloe and me is coming to an end. But I’ve already set my mind on it. I’m not letting her go.
Chloe catches my eye as she slips into the room, wearing the blue dress. Just like Barcelona. This girl kills me in blue. Her hair tumbles in a half do over her shoulders, and the music swells as she leans back against the doors, like a dream I didn’t know I was having.
A dream I didn’t know I wanted so badly.
But I want this. I want a future with her. I want to look out over the ice and see her wearing my number. I want Friday nights curled up on the couch, talking about anything and nothing. Saturday mornings at Brew & Rumor, watching her sketch out another story and bring it to life. I want us.
And I think she wants that too.
So tonight, when the contract ends, before she can break it off with me like she’s supposed to, I’ll whisk her away.
Find a way to pull her aside, like our first kiss under the orange trees, and tell her how I feel.
This stopped being fake for me. I’m in love with you.
The contract says you’re supposed to break up with me tonight, but what if we don’t?
What if we tear up that clause and make this real instead?
It’s not public yet. No one knows about the contract except me, Chloe, and Rick.
Okay, and maybe the Blue Ox team manager and Chloe’s bossy roommate, Jessa.
But true love will save the day, and we’ll just change the terms. Mutually agree to void the staged breakup clause.
Just…not do it. Stay together. Make it official. Make it real.
No harm, no foul. Everyone (especially us) lives happily ever after.
The thought makes my chest feel too small for my heart.
I pull my gaze away, turning back toward the procession as Maya reaches the arch.
Her father lifts her veil, kisses her cheek, shakes Derek’s hand.
The moment is sweet, genuine, the kind of thing that makes even cynical hockey players believe in forever.
The officiant starts talking. Something about love and commitment and choosing each other every day. The words wash over me because even fifty feet apart, with three hundred people in between, I feel connected to her in a way I’ve never felt connected to anyone.
My phone trembles in my pocket.
I ignore it. Because I’m at a wedding, and checking your phone during the ceremony is the kind of thing that gets you dirty looks.
It vibrates again.
I glance again at Chloe. She’s still standing in the back of the room, focused on the ceremony.
More buzzing. A phone call this time, vibrating insistently against my leg.
Okay, okay.
I slip away from my spot near the side door, push out of the room, wait until I’m a good six feet from the door before pulling out my phone. Seven missed calls from Rick. Six texts, two from Conrad, who’s still sitting in the audience.
Rick
Call me NOW
Have you seen this? (Link attached)
We have a SERIOUS problem
Conrad
Answer your phone
You need to see this. It’s bad.
Rick
I’m not kidding Kane. Call me immediately.
My stomach drops. That feeling you get when you’re about to get checked into the boards and you see it coming but can’t avoid it.
I open the link Rick sent.
Minnesota Bridal Magazine. Posted three hours ago.
The Not-So-Perfect Wedding Date: When Hockey Romance Meets Cold Reality
By Jennifer Hartley
And there’s our photo. The one from yesterday morning. Chloe and me in front of the fireplace, smiling like lovesick fools.
My blood turns to ice as I skim the article. Sources close to Chloe. The contract. The staged breakup that’s supposed to happen tonight. The accusations about Ashley. The convenient timing. Every detail we thought was private, now exposed for the world to see and judge.
The plan I had—the beautiful, simple plan where we just mutually agree to tear up the breakup clause and make this real—shatters like glass.
Because it’s not private anymore.
Is their romance real, or is this hockey’s latest publicity stunt? You be the judge.
The article ends there. Short. Devastating. Leaving just enough unsaid to let readers fill in the blanks with their worst assumptions.
And the comments below—I shouldn’t read them, but I do—are exactly what you’d expect:
“I KNEW something was off about them.”
“Poor Chloe, he’s using her.”
“Typical athlete behavior.”
“Wait, they’re supposed to break up tonight? This is going to be messy.”
“If there’s a contract requiring a breakup, how was ANY of it real?”
That last one hits the hardest. Because it’s the question I’m asking myself. How do you prove something became real when it started fake? How do you convince anyone—including maybe Chloe herself—that feelings evolved when there’s a contract saying it was supposed to end tonight anyway?
The section I was planning to ignore. The section I thought we could just void because no one knew it existed.
Except now everyone knows.
My phone rings. Rick.
I answer, my voice coming out rougher than intended. “I saw it.”
“Finally. I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour.”
“I’m at a wedding. The phone was on Do Not Disturb, thank you.”
“Well, it’s a disaster. The article dropped three hours ago, and it’s everywhere.
Sports media picked it up, social media is having a field day, the team management has called twice, asking for an explanation.
” He’s talking fast, the way he does when he’s in crisis-management mode. “We need to get ahead of this.”
“Get ahead of it how? The contract is exposed. Jennifer has sources.”
“Sources that ‘suggest’ a contract. That’s vague. We can claim—”
“We’re gonna come clean, Rick. Chloe and I, we don’t want to do this.”
The line goes quiet for a long time. “You can’t do that, Brody.”
Something in his voice makes my stomach drop. “Why not? It’s already out there. People already know.”
“People don’t know anything. So long as you make this convincing.” His voice is steady, solid, leaving no room to argue.
“Rick, I don’t—”
“You both signed an NDA. And I got off the phone ten minutes ago with the NHL. They don’t want any part of this coming back to them. If you guys come clean, they won’t just null the contract—they’ll come after you both for breach of contract. We’re talking serious legal action against you both.”
My head is spinning, like I took a hard hit.
I drag a hand through my hair. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying…” He pauses. “Tonight at the reception, you need to convince people that your love is real—so real there’s no way this article can be true. And then you need to break up and make that look real too.”
The words hang in the air like smoke.
“I’m not breaking up with her.”
“You don’t have to. She’s supposed to break up with you. That’s what the clause says.”
From inside the ceremony area, I hear applause. The vows are done. Maya and Derek are married.
The end is near.
I hear Rick let out a sigh. “Do you love this woman?”
The question stops me cold. “Yes.”
“Then don’t kill your future. Or hers.” His voice softens.
“I know this isn’t what you want. But sometimes, protecting someone means making the hard choice.
Even if it breaks your heart. You need to fulfill the contract as specified.
That means making sure this breakup is believable.
Make everyone see that you love her—really love her—and then let her break your heart.
That’s the only way you both come out of this intact. ”
He hangs up.
Inside, music is starting play, and any moment, the newlyweds will come bursting through that door.
The choice is obvious. Terrible, but obvious.
I have to let her break up with me tonight.
Or more accurately—I have to make her break up with me.
And then I have to hope—pray, really—that in thirty days, after I’ve ghosted her, after the media buzz has died down and we’re allowed to “reconcile,” she’ll forgive me. She’ll understand. She’ll take me back.
I feel like my father. Taking a gamble and losing. Except the stakes aren’t money or pride—they’re the woman I love and any chance we had at a real future together.
Best performance of my life. Here we go.
CHLOE
This morning, I woke up in Brody Kane’s arms thinking maybe we had a chance.
Now I’m hiding behind an ice sculpture at my sister’s wedding, trying to avoid eye contact with him while simultaneously wondering if there’s any possible way out of the disaster we’re both trapped in.
Brody is standing near the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, chatting with his teammate, Tyler, looking unfairly good, gesturing with a glass in a way that suggests he’s telling a story. Our eyes meet across the terrace.
I panic.
I nearly take out a server as I crouch-run through the crowd and duck behind the bar. In hindsight, it wasn’t my best moment.
“Can I help you, miss?” the bartender asks, a pretty redhead in a black button-up uniform.
“Oh no, I’m just hiding from the man who’s probably the love of my life so that I can avoid making decisions that could alter the course of our entire lives, possibly ruining them if I make the wrong one.”
The bartender raises a brow, her gaze skittering over the crowd. “Mr. Handsome, gray suit, chatting near the windows?”
“That’s him.”
She nods. Pours a glass of wine and hands it to me under the bar. “Stay strong, babe.”
There’s no time to enjoy my drink, however, because moments later, someone clamps onto my elbow, hauling me out from below the bar with surprising strength.
It’s Maya—curse that cardio-regimented queen and her vice grip.
“Maya—what’s—” But I can’t get a word in as she drags me toward the staff door at the back of the reception hall.
She pushes through the doors and finally turns to face me. “Chloe Dawson, you tell me the truth this time. Are you in a fake relationship with Brody Kane?”