Hunter’s eyes flicked between us like he’d wandered into a domestic argument. He wasn’t getting involved, because he didn’t want to. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t be here.
“I’m not the type to pull rank or anything–” I allowed myself an internal eye-roll and let Bob finish. “-but Coach McAvoy wants him at the table tonight. Callahan’s the story, sweetheart. And that’s basic hockey.”
I realized I wasn’t going to win this round. Not here. Not now. I pulled my phone out of my blazer pocket, thumbs moving fast. Thank God I had the foresight to save Hunter’s contact from the client folder Bob gave me as part of my welcome package.
Three lines—clean, neutral, impossible to twist:
We’re focused on regrouping as a team, ironing out some early season kinks. Every player in that locker room is committed to giving their best every game. We’re looking ahead to build on what we knowworks.
I hit send just as Hunter and Bob were going in.
“I sent you a script,” I said. “Stick to it. No matter what they ask.”
All I got was a dismissive wave as he walked into the press room. He didn’t even look at his phone.
“I hate it here,” I muttered under my breath.
*
The rink was a different kind of chaos. Not the fever pitch of a game, but organized noise. Skates carving into ice, pucks clattering against boards, the sharp shrill of Coach McAvoy’s whistle cutting through the cavernous space. I sat in the penalty box with this morning’s paper, watching bodies in Surge jerseys blur past.
My presence caused a stir with the guys, but I took it on the chin. I was here to make a point, and then I’d be on my way.
A wolf-whistle pierced the cold as one of them skated by. “You single?”
Another came a few seconds later and smacked his stick against the boards, flashing a wink in my direction.
I ignored them both.
This was supposed to be me challenging myself, stepping outside the box with a career shift that would help me grow. Make me better at my job. My therapist thought it was a great idea, but she couldn’t have known how much it would reek of testosterone.
Hunter broke from a drill and skated toward the box, helmet off, hair damp and curling against his forehead. He reached for a water bottle from the ledge, tilting it back without looking at me. Up close, he looked even taller than he had yesterday in the tunnel. Broader too.
I went over to him. “You’re dragging your blocker side.”
His head turned, brown eyes narrowing at me over the bottle. “What?”
“Also, your breakouts. They’re, uh…” I searched for a word. Anything my brain had filed from hockey games I’d caught on TV. “Your breakouts are loose. And maybe too many slap shots from the slot. Definitely watch those.”
He lowered the bottle slowly. “That’s… not a thing. None of what you said makes sense.”
“Sure it does. I just said it.”
His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. “If you wanna tell me how to play goalie, maybe you should study up the game a little more.”
“So you’re saying you won’t take my hockey advice because I know nothing about hockey?” We were getting closer to my reason for being here, and I couldn’t help the satisfied smirk. “What about PR?”
I pressed today’s paper into his chest, and he caught it reflexively. The headline screamed:DISASTER BREWING FOR SURGE.
His brow furrowed as he looked at it. “Wow. Subtle.”
“I told you to stick to the script.”
“I answered their questions,” he said, clearly agitated.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Hunter. You don’t answer their questions.” My voice stayed level, but my grip on the boards tightened. “You say what I tell you to say.”
He raised an eyebrow, still holding the paper. “But what if it doesn’t match what they’re saying?”
