Alycia
The projector hums like it might give up before I do. Its pale light spills across the Timberwolves’ media room, throwing the team logo in crisp green, black, and white behind me. Four rookies slouch in their chairs as if this is detention instead of mandatory media training. Their notebooks are closed, their pens untouched, and the boredom rolling off them is thick enough to taste.
By now, I should know their names by heart and be able to match every jersey number without sneaking a glance at my clipboard. Anyone who grew up breathing this sport would. But I didn’t, and every whistle still hits like a reminder that I’m the outsider here. I’ve learned enough to fake it, though, and I’m damn good at my job. Everyone has a place, and mine is making sure these boys don’t burn down their careers before they even start.
One of them sprawls back like his chair is a throne, arms folded across his chest. He clearly spends way too much time in the mirror. Blonde hair, messy onpurpose. Smirk carved into his face like he’s never heard the word no. His gaze drags over me, lingering on my legs before sliding lazily back up.
“No offense, but I thought the Timberwolves hired PR staff for their brains, not their looks. Guess I was wrong.”
The others burst out laughing, and heat rises up my neck—not embarrassment, just exhaustion. This isn’t the first, and it won’t be the last time I have to put someone like him in his place. I’m not the one lacing up skates or sweating through drills, but my job is just as important. Everything I do is to make sure this organization looks good when the cameras roll, especially after last season’s Mercer meltdown. We’re still cleaning up that mess.
“Thank you for demonstrating exactly whatnotto say on camera,” I say, voice cool and sharp. “Fans don’t care about your stats. They care about the man behind the jersey, and right now, you look like someone who’d rather be an arrogant misogynist than a professional. Reporters eat boys like you for breakfast.”
His smirk wavers as the room goes silent.
“You think you’re clever? Keep talking like that, and you’ll set your career on fire before it even starts. So, take notes, keep your mouth shut, and pay attention.”
Not a single word follows as I flip to the next slide.
“Congratulations on making it to training camp. That was the fun part. Now comes the part that keeps you in the league.”
The projector clicks when the door opens, and Cole Hendrix leans against the frame. Six feet of confidence wrapped in muscle and a grin that could ruin reputations. Hazel eyes threaded with blue, thick waves of hair that fall perfectly without trying, and a gold chain glinting at his throat. He and Cooper could pass as twins if you squint, but Cole has more charm softening his edges.
Of course, he’s the one who walks into my meeting. Cole lives to stir the pot, but the one thing I’ve learned since he came back is that he doesn’t tolerate crap, especially when it’s aimed at the women who work here.
“Don’t mind me,” he says easily. “Just checking to see how our rookies are holding up under fire.”
All four boys sit up straighter.
“Here’s some advice,” he adds, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the rookie who mouthed off. “Don’t ever talk to her like that again. Alycia is the reason you won’t make fools of yourselves in front of the media. Respect her, or you deal with me.”
The kid’s face drains of color.
I keep my expression neutral, pen tapping lightly against my clipboard, but inside, I’m savoring every second. Watching their bravado melt is almost better than delivering the lecture myself.
Cole glances at me and winks, like he can see the laugh I’m biting back. I school my face into professional calm and click to the next slide. Before the silence can stretch, Beau Hendrix’s voice comes from the doorway.
“Cole giving you a hard time again, Torres?”
Beau steps inside with an easy grin. He’s taller than Cole by a few inches, broader, too. He carries a strength that makes people part around him. A hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves shoved to his elbows, a backward cap hiding half a head of dirty-blonde curls.
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Didn’t think so.” Beau drops into a seat in the back, warm hazel eyes steady. He’s nothing like his younger brother. He retired recently, forced off the ice after a health scare no one ever explained to me. Whispers carried further than facts.
People treated him like he was already gone, but I never did. I even told off Coach Mercer on his last day here for the way he handled things with Beau. They didn’t fire me for it, but things between Beau and me have been different ever since. Standing up for him mattered to him. I know that. Now he’s the Timberwolves’ goaltender coach, a steady anchor with a casual grin and curls spilling out from under his cap.
“Carry on, Torres,” Cole says, stretching out beside his brother.
Annoyance prickles under my skin—I can handle rookies without backup—but I move on. “Rule number one: Do not hit post when you are angry, drunk, or both.”
This time, every pen is moving. By the time I dismiss them, their notebooks are full, and their confidence is dented exactly the right amount. They file out quickly, avoiding eye contact. The cocky one lingers long enough to mumble something like an apology, butthe door slams behind him before it fully forms. I let him sweat.
Cole lingers, too, looking entertained. “Not bad, Torres. Almost made me feel sorry for them.”
I raise a brow, and he just grins, satisfied.
“Good work.” Beau rises, chair scraping softly. His gaze catches mine, and something steady settles under my skin. Respect, or maybe that’s what I want it to be.
