Is This the Real Candy Kane? Woman Exposes Dark Side of Hockey Charmer
My mind flashes again to Chloe, standing alone on the steps of her hotel, hurt etched in the lines of her face. Maybe the headlines are right.
By the time I emerge, most of the guys have cleared out, and I almost let out a sigh of relief as I pull on my dark jeans, a gray sweater, and leather boots. I look like I’m headed to a photoshoot instead of a parking lot confrontation.
Image. Always image. At this point, it’s probably the only thing that can save me.
I grab my keys and head for the door, walking through the narrow hallway back toward daylight.
Time to face the next disaster.
The parking lot is brutal. Blistering cold that hurts your face, gray, hopeless sky, snow piled in dirty mountains along the edges of the lot, wind that cuts through every layer.
And my car is parked—you guessed it—in the back. The black Ford Mustang Shelby GT500 gleams darkly against the ashy sky. Nothing fancy, but fast when I need it to be.
I’m almost there when someone steps into my path.
Rick Castellano. My agent.
Fortysomething, always in a suit that costs more than most people’s mortgage payment, carrying his iPad like it’s the tablet Moses brought down from Sinai. Today’s sartorial selection is charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, and he’s wearing Italian leather shoes that have no business being in a Minnesota parking lot in January. He’s not even wearing a coat.
“We need to talk. Now.”
I don’t slow down. “Not in the mood, Rick.”
He falls into step beside me. “I don’t care. Look at this.”
He shoves the iPad in my face, and I stop walking, because I don’t have a choice.
The screen is filled with headlines:
Is Candy Kane’s Charm Just an Act?
Hockey’s Nice-Guy Image Shattered: Kane Faces Heartbreaker Allegations
Below the headlines are more photos, boosted, probably from Ashley’s Instagram account. I shrug. “It’ll blow over.” I hope.
“It might, if it weren’t for these.” He scrolls down the page and shows me more photos. Blurry, zoomed-in, clearly taken from someone’s social media and enhanced until they’re almost unrecognizable—but unmistakably me. And unmistakablyher.
Chloe.
Six months ago. In Barcelona.
My chest tightens. “I thought that was taken care of.” Meaning Rick contacted the photographer, got an NDA, and the photos were taken down.
“Yeah, well, regardless how they got them, it’s not a good look, Brody. And now this Ashley girl is threatening legal action for emotional distress?—”
“I barely talked to her!” I can feel my blood pressure rising. “We met at a gala. She said she was a professional sports blogger. I was being polite.”
“She said you were flirting. That you gave her your number?—”
“Because she was going to send me her blog for approval.” I reach my car, set my duffel in the trunk. “She’s the one who’s been stalkingme?—”
“I know.” Rick holds up his hand. “Listen. There’s no doubt her legal case is weak?—”
“Weak? I didn’t do anything!” And now there’s no candy left in my voice, and he looks around, just in case people are watching.
Let them. I’m so done playing the part while this girl tries to ruin my life over a smile.
