Rick waits a beat, his eyes askingAre you finished?“It doesn’t matter, Brody. True or not—and you know I believe you—the team called. They want answers. Your performance is slipping, the press is having a field day, and management is losing patience.”
He looks behind me and lifts a hand. I turn. Oh goody, there’s a small crowd gathering near the fence. Fans. A family—two adults, three kids—wearing Blue Ox gear, all holding their phones.
“Candy! Hey, Candy Kane!”
“Can we get a picture?”
“Sign my jersey!”
I stare at Rick. “This. This is my life.”
“No, Candy.Thisis your life.” He holds up his phone and keeps scrolling, showing me comment after comment.Fake. Player. User. Just another athlete who thinks charm is a substitute for character.
“It’s tabloid garbage.” My voice sounds distant even to me. “It’ll blow over.”
“It won’t.” He stops on an article from ESPN. A think piece about performative masculinity in professional sports. My face is the thumbnail. “Your charm offensive worked for years—the smile, the perfect quotes, the fan engagement. But now they’re digging deeper. They’re calling you fake, Brody. A performer. Someone who uses people for image management.”
I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat. “What do you want me to do?”
Rick stops scrolling. Looks at me like I’m particularly slow. “You need damage control. A girlfriend—real or fake, I don’t care—to prove you’re not just a charming smile with nothing behind it. Someone stable. Genuine. Makes you look human.”
I laugh. It comes out bitter, sharp. “You want me tohiresomeone to prove I’m real? You see the irony, right?”
“I see a client who’s about to lose his contract renewal because his head isn’t in the game and his reputation is in the swirl.” His voice goes flat. Hard. The kind of tone that means he’s done negotiating. “You have until Valentine’s Day. That gives you five weeks. Find someone, make it convincing, getthrough the season with good press. The charm’s not gonna do it for you this time.”
Something in my chest cracks.
The fans are still calling. “Candy! Please! Just one picture!”
“And if I don’t?” My voice is barely above a whisper.
Rick just looks at me.
“Never mind,” I say.
“Good.” He turns and walks to his Mercedes. Black, sleek, idling near the exit like a getaway car. He pulls away without looking back.
And I’m left standing in the parking lot with the wind cutting through my jacket and voices calling my name like a Greek chorus of disappointment.
I don’t wave. Don’t smile. Don’t turn around.
Just get in my car and drive.
I drop my gym bag by the door, hockey tape and sweaty base layers and the smell of the rink gear spilling out across the hardwood of my South Minneapolis penthouse. It’s the only mess I allow. The only proof that I live here.
The rest of the apartment looks like a hotel room. You know, magazine-worthy.
Kitchen: spotless. Granite counters gleaming. No dishes in the sink because I haven’t cooked a meal in this place since I purchased it two years ago. The fridge hums quietly, filled with takeout containers I’ll probably throw away without eating and a six-pack of beer I never drink.
There’s a stack of unopened mail on the counter—bills, probably, mixed with promotional stuff from sponsors who think I’ll endorse their protein shakes or razors or whatever.
Living room: black leather couch—expensive, uncomfortable, barely sat on—facing a massive TV mounted on the wall. I use it for game tape. That’s it. No streaming services, no movie nights, no friends over for playoff games.
No friends.
I trudge through the apartment, every muscle aching, and sink onto the sofa.
My phone buzzes. Multiple missed calls. All from the same number.
