Around me, the team is in various states of undress and chaos. Steam from the showers turns everything humid and soggy, and someone is playing one of those trendy pop-music songs, just loud enough to be annoying.
Tyler’s arguing with Kalen about one of the practice plays.
Wyatt’s sitting on the bench, unlacing his skates. His goalie pads are stacked neatly beside him—white, barely scuffed, because his glove side is legendary. Mine look like they’ve been through a war.
Derek’s holding court near the showers, talking about wedding plans. “Maya’s going crazy over Valentine’s Day details. Florist, photographer, cake tasting—it’s nonstop. But she’s happy, so…” He shrugs like he’s doing everyone a favor by getting married.
Someone mutters, “Valentine’s wedding? Bold choice, man.”
Derek grins. “What my baby wants, my baby gets.”
My stall is in the corner. Away from the main cluster. Used to be a choice—I liked the space, the quiet, the ability to get in and out without getting pulled into every conversation. Now it just feels like isolation.
The nameplate above my stall gleams under the fluorescent lights:KANE #7.
And below it, engraved in smaller letters, is“CANDY.”
I learned a long time ago to brush it off. Ignore the grating in my mind every time I hear the name. I didn’t hate it so much at first. The first time I heard the nickname plastered on some sports headline—Brody “Candy” Kane, Sweet-Talking His Way Through Post-Game Interviews and Melting Hearts Across theTwin Cities—it was funny. But then the name stuck, worked its way into the locker room and onto the ice.
Now, the nickname feels like a game I’m playing. And given my most recent tabloid splash, I’m losing.
Tyler comes over, hands up like he’s approaching a wounded animal. He’s already out of most of his gear, wearing compression shorts and a Blue Ox hoodie, his red hair sticking up in seventeen directions. “Hey, man. That drill was rough, but we all have off days.”
I don’t look up. Just keep unlacing my skates. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” He sits on the bench across from me, not quite close enough to be in my space, but close enough to be annoying. Torch has this thing where he thinks if he just keeps showing up, keeps trying, eventually people will let him in. It’s worked for him his whole career—he’s the glue guy, the one everyone likes. “We could grab food after this. Decompress. Talk?—”
“I said I’m fine, Torch.”
The temperature in my voice drops about forty degrees, and Tyler rocks back, brows lifted.
“All right.” He stands, shoves his hands in his hoodie pocket. “I’m just trying to help. The Candy I know would have snapped back by now, given me a hard time already about”—he shrugs—“I don’t know, my hair looking like I stuck my finger in an outlet or something. This isn’t you.”
“Well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
The words come out colder than I intended. Tyler’s face hardens, and he walks away without another word.
Great.
Add him to the list of bridges I’m burning.
Someone clears their throat behind me. I cast a glance over my shoulder. Conrad Kingston leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Con’s been in the league longer than most of ushave been alive—or at least, it feels that way. Six foot, broad shoulders, dark blond-reddish hair and beard.
His fiancée is Penelope Pepper—better known as Penny, the murder podcaster, which means nothing goes under the radar with her around. Which also means Con definitely knows about the tabloid situation.
Great.
“Listen, Kane.” His voice is calm. Measured. “This thing’ll blow over. Until then, you gotta keep your head down and in the game.”
I want to tell him to mind his own business. Deflect. Anything to get him—and everyone else—off my back. Instead, I do exactly what he says. I keep my head down and nod.
Con waits a beat as though expecting something more, then walks away.
I head for the showers before anyone else decides to weigh in on my performance today.
The water is scalding. Steam fills the space, turning everything hazy. I press my forehead against the tile, close my eyes, and try to drown out the headlines in my head.
Brody “Candy” Kane’s Sweet Talk Hides Cold Heart, Says Victim
