I spend the next three hours in crisis-management mode. Slicing, creasing, and alphabetizing the three hundred Valentine’s-themed escort cards, placing each letter of the alphabet into its own little baggy. Once that’s done, I try my best to wash the glitter off my fingers (I really didn’t think that through when I was ordering the cards—but then again, I didn’t anticipate needing to hand-crease every single one of them, so…). Then I pop out of the cabin to check the ceremony site and lay assigned seat cards on the first rows, along with tissues and programs for Derek’s parents and mine. I do a once-over of the space. Chairs in perfect rows facing the lake, white fabric draped just so, the arch decorated with pine branches and winter flowers. Make sure the candles are ready to light.
On my way back, I stop in at the reception, which is coming along. The linens are draped, the florists bustling here and there with centerpieces and greenery. The catering manager meets me at the bar to confirm our timelines.
It’s all perfect.
It’s after lunch when I finally make it back to the cottage, and the energy has shifted. Maya sits gracefully in a white director’s chair, having her makeup done. The other girls are all loungingaround, drinking mimosas in their matching pink robes, their hair and makeup already finished. The music has died down, only one speaker crooning now.
“You’re back!” Maya says, peeking at me while her makeup artist works on her other eye. “How does everything look?”
“It’s all running exactly as planned.” Which is a relief, because this is one thing in my life I cannot afford to mess up. The money from Brody won’t be able to save my business if my wedding failure is plastered all over magazines and social media.
I’m pulling on my dress—a frosty blue that Maya picked, fitted and elegant and making me feel like a slightly more sophisticated version of myself—when a hush falls over the room.
The kind of hush you just know is about you.
Maya is staring at her phone, her face pale. Lauren is reading over her shoulder, her expression somewhere between shock and pity. The other bridesmaids are exchanging glances, their gazes flickering toward me but not making contact.
“What?” My heart is already racing, because there’s really only one thing this could be…
Maya looks at me, her face a wash of emotions—hurt, confusion, disappointment maybe? She walks over, phone in hand. Turns the screen to face me.
It’s an article.Minnesota Bridal Magazine. Posted two hours ago.
The Not-So-Perfect Wedding Date: When Hockey Romance Meets Cold Reality
By Jennifer Hartley
And there’s a photo. The one from yesterday morning. Me and Brody in front of the fireplace, smiling like we’re really in love.
I scroll down, my hands shaking.
This weekend, I had the pleasure of covering the Dawson–Munson wedding at the beautiful Maple Haven Resort. During my stay, I met event planner Chloe Dawson and her boyfriend, Minnesota Blue Ox defenseman Brody “Candy” Kane. They seemed like the perfect couple—attentive, affectionate, clearly smitten.
But something didn’t add up.
And then sources close to Dawson revealed the suggestion of a contract, with terms.
Including a public breakup.
Further investigation revealed that Kane has been embroiled in controversy recently, with accusations of manipulation from social media influencer Ashley Morrison. Dawson’s sister is marrying Kane’s teammate Derek Munson. The timing of their relationship—conveniently coinciding with Kane’s image crisis and Dawson’s need for a wedding date—raises questions.
I reached out to both parties for comment. Neither responded.
Is their romance real, or is this hockey’s latest publicity stunt? You be the judge.
Alarms start blaring inside my head.Code red, code red!
“Is it true?” Maya’s voice is hollow, steady.
My head is spinning, working overtime to remember the details of the contract.
Listen, I’m no legal expert, but I’m pretty sure the contract said if our relationship is proven to be fake, we both loseeverything. And even if I’m planning to break the contract anyway by telling Brody I want to be with him, I don’t want to do it like this. By shouting to the world while he’s out of the room that this whole thing was a sham.
So, I close my ears to that little voice telling me to come clean.
And I lie.
“I can’t believe someone would post this. No, it’s not true.”
