Chapter 4
MILA
Mila’s skull is a full-blown construction site, with jackhammers pounding behind her eyes, drills whining through her temples, and the occasional wrecking ball swinging straight through her frontal lobe. Her limbs feel like they’ve been poured full of wet cement.
She groans and buries her face deeper into the pillow, silently begging whatever gods are listening to take her out quickly.
Something wet and sandpapery drags across her cheek.
She startles, one eye cracking open.
A small, squish-faced bulldog mutt stares back at her, tongue lolling, tail thumping against the mattress with the confidence of someone who knows he’s adorable. His underbite is heroic. His breath is a crime—equal parts gym socks and bacon.
“Gordie,” she croaks.
The dog gives her another enthusiastic lick, as if proud of himself for reviving her from the dead.
She blinks blearily against the soft sunlight bleeding through gauzy curtains and tries to make sense of the room she’s in. Pale walls. A bookshelf crammed with hardcovers. A framed photo of Natalie as a teenager in a sparkly leotard. A lavender throw blanket tangled around her legs.
Natalie’s guest room.
Right. Last night. Cider. Tequila. Poor decisions. And now a wake-up call from a dog named Gordie Howl.
Her head throbs in time with the buzzing of her phone somewhere in the blanket mess. She groans, pulling her legs out from under the covers, and tries to recall how much she drank. Definitely enough. Possibly too much.
Images float up in fragments. Jesse shirtless.
Again. Tristan quoting Shakespeare in a faux British accent while shotgunning a beer.
Carter trying to arm wrestle a stranger.
Pavel dancing with a barstool. Theo looking awkward and tense, so clearly not used to attention.
He’d blushed when she so much as looked at him.
Avoided all eye contact after their trip to the bar.
She drags a hand down her face and grimaces. Her skin is sticky with sweat. Her phone buzzes relentlessly now, a steady pulse of bad news waiting to happen.
She strokes Gordie Howl absently. “What a night.”
Then, shouting.
Not from outside. Inside. Natalie.
Mila jolts upright, groaning as the motion sends pain ricocheting through her temples. She swings her legs off the bed and stumbles toward the sound, Gordie’s little paws skittering after her.
Downstairs, Natalie is pacing the kitchen like a caged lion, phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
“I swear to God, I will kill him,” she snaps.
Jake stands by the island, calm as ever, arms crossed like he’s done this before. “Nat, slow down. It’s bad, yes, but we don’t know how—”
“Don’t tell me to slow down, Jake,” she hisses. “He’s going to be in so much shit if the team sees this. I can’t believe he’s been this stupid. Again.”
“What happened?” Mila croaks, her voice a gravel pit.
Both heads swivel toward her. Jake looks relieved. Natalie is wild-eyed with fury.
Jake hands her a phone. “See for yourself.”
Mila pads across the kitchen tiles, stomach roiling, and peers at the screen.
The video is only thirteen seconds.
But it’s enough.
Shirtless and red-faced, Jesse stands on the bar in a glittery cowboy hat, arms outstretched like he owns the place.
He’s swaying hard as a girl in a purple bralette and cutoff jeans pours tequila into his open mouth.
Another presses close and licks salt off his stomach, giggling into his skin.
Jesse grabs her by the face and kisses her, messy and uncoordinated, tongues questing and unmistakable.
Around them, the bar cheers as if someone scored in overtime.
The camera is shaky, but the details are crystal clear—and damning.
Mila winces. “Oh, Jesse.”
“It’s everywhere,” Natalie says, voice sharp. “Someone sent it to Jake this morning.”
“And he’s underage,” Jake echoes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If they check timestamps or location data, he’s not just breaking curfew, he’s committing a crime.”
Natalie throws up her hands, her voice cracking. “There goes everything he’s worked for. Everything my parents and I worked for.”
Mila says nothing. She can’t. Because she remembers it all—Natalie dropping out of her second year at Western to move back to Port Perry after her parents died.
Trading campus parties and career fairs for grief counseling and early-morning rink drives.
She worked three jobs to pay for Jesse’s skates, his sticks, his endless league fees. Gave up nights out, gave up dreams.
While Mila stayed in university, got her degree, and built her life, Natalie built Jesse’s.
“I thought you were with him,” Jake says, turning to Mila now, voice pointed. “Why didn’t you stop him?”
Mila freezes, then narrows her eyes. “Seriously?”
Natalie cuts in before she has to answer. “Don’t you dare put that on her. She’s not his babysitter.”
Jake lifts a hand. “I’m not blaming. I’m trying to figure out who was watching him.”
Mila sets the phone down, rubbing her temple. “Theo and I left around one. Jesse was still vertical, still loud, but not, you know…tequila fountain level yet.”
Jake raises an eyebrow. “You left with Theo?”
“Separately,” Mila corrects, sharper than intended. “Theo left around the same time. We weren’t... together.”
Natalie looks at her curiously, but doesn’t get the chance to question her best friend. The front door creaks open, and Jesse stumbles in like he’s trying to remember how gravity works. He’s in a stained t-shirt, sunglasses still on, and a half-eaten granola bar in his hand.
Gordie Howl barks once, winding his way around Jesse’s ankles, tail wagging furiously.
“Hey,” he says cautiously, leaning down to scratch behind Gordie’s ears. “Was someone yelling?”
“Are you insane?” Natalie roars.
Jesse flinches. “Okay. Definitely yelling.”
“Do you know how screwed you are?” Jake says. “That video’s gone viral.”
Jesse takes off the sunglasses, revealing bloodshot eyes. “What video?”
Jake shoves his phone towards Jesse. His voice is steely. “I’ve had that sent to me by at least five guys this morning, all from different teams. You’re trending, bruh. But not in a good way.”
“Jesse, you’re nineteen. That bar could lose its license. You could get benched. Fined!” Natalie shrieks.
“Okay, okay,” Jesse says, hands up. “I was drunk. It got out of hand. I didn’t know they were recording.”
“You were on top of a bar. What part of that suggested privacy?” Jake asks dryly.
Natalie throws up her hands, eyes wild with frustration.
“Jesse, this is the worst possible time for you to screw up. The league’s already under a microscope.
Every week there’s another story about some asshole crossing lines they can’t uncross.
And now you’re caught partying underage?
Grabbing a girl’s face and shoving your tongue down her throat?
Maybe she was fine with it—but on that video? ”
She pauses, clicking her tongue.
“It doesn’t look good. And if it doesn’t look good, it doesn’t matter what actually happened. Consent has to be obvious, not questionable.”
“I swear she asked me to kiss her,” Jesse blurts, pulling out his phone. “Look, we’ve been texting all morning. She’s literally sending me heart emojis. You believe me, right? And, like, I didn’t even try to take her home—I Ubered home with Carter. Total gentleman vibes.”
Mila closes her eyes. She can’t let this happen.
Not to Natalie, who gave up everything, and not to Jesse, who’s so close to making his dream a reality.
He’s a good kid. Dumb as rocks half the time, sure, but his heart’s always been in the right place.
She remembers when he was a gangly teenager in oversized hoodies, trailing behind her and Natalie like a puppy.
He was too embarrassed to ask his sister about girls, so he’d pull Mila aside in the kitchen and whisper questions like should I text her first or will that seem desperate and do girls actually like poetry.
God. Back then, he was all elbows and blushes and cereal crumbs—now he’s six-two and doing body shots.
Mila’s caffeine-deprived fog begins to clear, replaced by a sharp flicker of purpose. Her marketing instincts are kicking in.
“Alright,” she says, straightening. “This is what we’re doing.”
Three heads swivel to look at her.
“Natalie, find out if anyone has tagged his location. If it says the bar name, we need that scrubbed ASAP.”
“Got it,” Natalie says, already scrolling.
Jesse opens his mouth. Mila cuts him off.
“You,” she says, pointing a finger at his chest. “Call your buddies and your bunny from last night and find out who took the video. We need it taken down.”
Jesse nods, grabbing his phone. “I can do that.”
“And, you need to post. Not a Notes app apology—something human. Regretful. No excuses, but also not admitting to anything illegal. Don’t say you were drunk. Don’t say it was a mistake. You’re working with the team and being responsible moving forward.”
He frowns. “So I’m supposed to say what? Sorry for partying?”
“Try again,” she says flatly. “You’re an underage player with a spotlight the size of the sun on you. You want scouts to see ‘fun-loving winger,’ not ‘total liability off the ice.’ Got it?”
“Got it,” he mutters.
She turns to Jake. “I need you to call the team’s PR department and tell them what’s happening. Make sure no statements are made until we’ve scrubbed what we can.”
Jake looks skeptical. “We’re a development team, Mil. Our team’s PR department consists of a couple college grads who do our social media and a half-retired guy named Larry. I don’t think they’re cut out for handling a viral video.”
Mila purses her lips, thinking. “Okay, you and I will handle it. Find out if anyone from the media is sniffing around. And get me some names of the local reporters who cover the Whalers. I’ll call them myself if I have to.”