Epilogue Jenna
My office is a glitter-dusted disaster zone.
It’s a shrine to the Boston Reign, if you consider a wall of Polaroids, three different shades of neon highlighter bleeding into my mahogany desk, and a stack of press releases that smell like expensive coffee to be a “shrine.”
I am midway through color-coding the social media roll out for the upcoming trade deadline when my office door swings open without the courtesy of a knock.
“Unless the arena is currently on fire, or someone accidentally live-streamed a fight in the locker room, I am busy,” I say, not looking up from my screen.
“The arena is fine,” Scottie replies.
She waddles in, looking like the goddess of motherhood in an oversized Reign hoodie that definitely belongs to Cash. She is cradling a jar of spicy pickles like it’s a religious artifact, her grip firm and protective.
“The locker room, however, is currently embroiled in a heated debate over whether pineapple belongs on pizza,” she adds, “which I am told is far more dangerous than any fire.”
Cash follows her in, moving with that practiced, alert grace of a man who spends his life protecting things. He’s scanning the room for hazards, his eyes flicking to the open window and then back to me.
“She needed the spicy ones,” Cash says, gesturing toward the jar. “The ones from that deli three towns over. I almost got a ticket on the way here, and I’m pretty sure the guy at the counter thought I was kidnapping her because she was literally crying about the jar being stuck.”
“It wasn’t stuck,” Scottie corrects him, cracking the lid with a triumphant pop. “It was challenging my authority. I was just asserting dominance.”
“Did you win?” I ask, finally spinning my chair around to face them.
“Obviously,” she says, popping a pickle into her mouth and looking entirely pleased with herself.
I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. Cash catches me looking, his brow furrowing in that way that usually means he’s calculating how much trouble he can get into before I officially start the clock on the next PR nightmare.
“How’s the headache, Jenna?” Cash asks, his voice dropping an octave, eyes lingering on my desk.
“The headache is currently reviewing the head shots for the new prospect,” I tell him. “I haven’t even looked at the bio yet. Dean has been hoarding it like it’s the Magna Carta.”
“Dean is busy being a lawyer,” Scottie says, rolling her eyes. “He thinks if he doesn’t scrutinize every single comma in a contract, the Boston Reign is going to implode by tomorrow morning.”
“He’s a professional buzzkill in a very hot suit,” I agree.
“I can hear you,” Dean’s voice cuts through the hallway before he even arrives.
He appears in the doorway, looking like he’s just stepped off a runway, save for the thick manila folder in his hand. He looks at Scottie, and his face softens—the sharp, guarded lines around his eyes relaxing completely.
“How’s the appetite?” he asks her.
“Out of control,” she mumbles through a mouthful of pickle.
Dean turns his attention to me, his expression turning business-like. “Jenna, I need your eyes on this. We have a signing coming in for a walk through in ten minutes. I need a preliminary press release drafted by noon.”
“Ten minutes? Dean, you’re joking,” I say, reaching for my favorite pink glitter pen. “I need at least a bio, a highlight reel, and a reason to tell the fans to buy his jersey. Is he a star, or is he a reclamation project?”
“He’s… uhh.. talent-heavy,” Dean says, his voice dropping slightly.
He slides the folder across my desk. It’s thick with legal jargon and performance metrics.
“Why are you being so cryptic?” I ask, tapping the folder with my pen. “Did he get into a bar fight? Please, God, tell me he didn’t try to fight a mascot.”
Dean sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He’s complicated. Just read the file, Jenna.”
I open the folder. I’m already mentally drafting the PR strategy, planning the tone of the social media announcement, preparing to turn this guy into a fan favorite.
Name: Jace Sterling.
The name hits me like a physical blow to the solar plexus. My breath hitches, the room tilting on its axis. The glitter pen rolls out of my hand, clattering against the wood.
Jace.
The air in my office feels too thin. My heart is a frantic bird against my ribs, battering at the cage of my chest.
I haven’t spoken to him in three years. I have blocked, deleted, and professionally scrubbed him from every platform I manage.
I moved to Boston to be invisible. To be me. To be the woman who doesn’t apologize for taking up space.
“Jenna?” Scottie’s voice is suddenly very close. Her hand is firm on my arm. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I can’t answer. My hands are shaking.
I look up, and Dean is watching me, his eyes sharp and protective. He sees the way the color has drained from my face, the way my world just shattered into tiny, jagged pieces.
“Jenna,” Dean says quietly, his posture shifting. “If you need a moment, I can—”
“Where is he?”
“He’s in the front office,” Dean says. “He’s already checked in with security.”
The door opens again. I don’t look up; I’m staring at the dust motes dancing in the light, trying to remember how to breathe.
“You know, I expected the office to be bigger,” a voice says. “A little less… pink.”
I look up.
Jace is leaning against my doorframe, wearing a tailored suit, his hair perfectly styled, that easy, lovable smile tugging at his lips. He looks at me, and I see the flicker of recognition, the exact moment he realizes who I am.
“Jenny?” he says, his voice softening in a way that used to make my knees weak. “It really is you.”
The room is silent.
Scottie is staring at me, her hand resting protectively on her stomach, her eyes wide. Cash has stepped forward, his body language shifting into something defensive, his eyes tracking Jace’s every move. Dean is standing by the desk, his jaw clenched, his hand hovering near the file.
I square my shoulders. I smooth the front of my blazer, anchoring myself. I channel every ounce of the “PR girlie” boss-energy I’ve cultivated for years.
“Mr. Sterling,” I say, my voice steady, though I can feel the pulse thumping in my throat.
Jace blinks, his smile faltering for a fraction of a second. “I didn’t know you were the one handling the Reign’s PR. Small world, right?”
“It’s a professional organization, Jace,” I say, forcing myself to look him dead in the eye. “We don’t care about small worlds. We care about performance.”
I turn to Dean, refusing to let my gaze linger on Jace for a second longer. “Dean, take him to the conference room. I need to review his conduct clause. If he’s going to be a Reign, he’s going to follow my rules.”
Jace looks confused, his brow furrowed in that way that used to make me want to smooth it out with my thumbs. “Jenna, can’t we just… catch up?”
“We’re here to work, Jace,” I say, my voice barely wavering. “You’re a client. I’m the PR director. Let’s keep it that way.”
I pick up my glitter pen and cap it with a sharp, final click.
Dean steps forward, his hand firmly on Jace’s shoulder, guiding him toward the door with a strength that isn’t up for debate. “You heard her. Conference room. Now.”
As they exit, the door closing behind them, I sink back into my chair, my knees made of water.
Scottie is by my side in an instant, her hand tight on my arm. “Jenna? Talk to me. Who is he?”
I look at the jar of pickles on my desk, then at Scottie’s worried, fierce face. I take a deep breath, trying to steady the earthquake happening inside me.
“He’s someone I used to know,” I say. “A long time ago.”
Cash leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Do you want me to kick him out? Because I will. I’ll make it look like a tragic accident involving a stack of hockey sticks.”
I laugh. “No, Cash. No hockey sticks.”
I look at the folder on my desk, at the name that had once meant everything.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Now, who’s ordering the food? Because if I have to manage his PR, I’m going to need something better than pickles.”
Scottie hesitates and then smiles, a bright, fierce thing that warms the room. “Thai food. My treat.”
I lean back, a genuine smile forming on my lips. “Oh, Scottie. You don’t have to tell me twice.”
***
1:42 PM
Dean: Is that him?
Me: Yup