“Speak for yourself, Captain,” Gregory Mills says from his stall, methodically taping his stick with the concentration of a man preparing for a standardized test. “Some of us enjoy structured events that raise money for good causes.”
Dex snorts. “Gregory, buddy, if this thing is structured, I will eat my helmet.”
Mason Barber grunts from the bench, arms folded, expression carved from granite. “You already eat like you’ve lost a bet.”
The guys laugh. I tug my jersey over my shoulders and take a second to scan the room.
This is my team.
Loud. Ridiculous. Loyal to a fault.
And yes, I’m the captain. Which means I’m supposed to be the responsible one. The glue. The guy who keeps the wheels from flying off.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a little chaos.
Let’s not rewrite history. I was right there on that stage a few months ago, grabbing a mic and chanting like a deranged cheerleader while Annabelle's ex imploded on live television. I didn’t stop that disaster, I conducted it.
Leadership isn’t about killing the fun.
It’s about knowing when to aim it.
Coach Ryder Hale walks in, clipboard under his arm, coffee in hand, wedding band catching the fluorescent lights as he claps once for attention.
“Alright, ladies,” he says, smirking when Dex flips him off affectionately. “Gear up. And before anyone bolts, PR’s here.”
A collective groan ripples through the room.
Dex perks up immediately. “Oh hell yes.”
“That’s not the reaction you want to have,” I tell him.
“Are you kidding?” he says. “This is where dreams are born. Or scandals. Sometimes both. I thrive in ambiguity.”
Two PR reps step inside, smiles polished, posture immaculate, holding tablets like shields.
“We’ll be quick,” one of them promises.
It’s always a lie.
She launches in. Valentine’s week. Community outreach. Charity partners. Media sponsors already lined up. Big push. Bigger audience.
“And,” she says brightly, “we’re calling itHearts on Ice: A Valentine’s Charity Night.”
Someone whistles. Someone else groans louder.
Dex presses a hand to his chest. “That’s beautiful. That’s art. I’m getting that tattooed.”
“You’re absolutely not,” I say.
She continues, unfazed. “Dating-game style fundraiser. Three players on stage. Live audience. Bidding element. Proceeds to our usual local charities.”
Mason shifts like he’s considering faking an injury. Gregory freezes mid-tape.
Dex raises his hand. “Question.”
She smiles at him cautiously. “Yes?”
“Are we shirtless?”
