“Yeah, you’re in trouble.” Charlie drops into Nat’s empty seat, watching me stare after Bea’s retreating form.
“Not helping.” I snap my eyes to him before picking up the cupcake, destroying half of it in a single bite.
CHAPTER 3
BEA
“The NHL Network has asked us to put forward two members of the team to be considered for a full-season documentary. Every team is offering players for consideration. They want it to be a personal examination of on-ice and off-ice life for the player while highlighting certain topics. They want more of a spotlight on team dynamics, training, player health, and family life.” Ava Michaels, Director of Communications and Public Relations for The Midnight, rounds the conference table, eyes fixed on the presentation slide. The bullet points mirror what she says. Immediately, I start making notes in the copy of the slide deck I have on my laptop. I pull up a second window, the team roster, to keep side-by-side as we discuss. “The network will determine who—if anyone we suggest—will become subjects, but we owe them options. Filming starts at the beginning of September, coinciding with the first days of training camp.” The statuesque blonde stops behind the plush chair at the head of the table, casually drapingher arms over the top, surveying the other three public relations officers and me. “Any suggestions?”
“I know more playersnotto suggest than those that would be good candidates,” Trinity Jordan says, her pin-straight black hair swishing as she shakes her head. The gentle laugh that comes from her rocks her petite shoulders before she rearranges herself in her conference chair, then reaches for her coffee. “No hate to any of the guys, but I know it’s hard to get some of them to even do a video trend sometimes. We somehow ended up with a roster of reluctant superstars.”
“Crosby’s great in front of the camera, but after last season, I think he wants to avoid as much press as possible,” Vanessa Benjamin muses. She pushes her square-framed glasses into the wavy red hair piled on top of her head, giving me a quick look. Her striking green eyes stand out against the creamy tone of her complexion. I nod in agreement. Altercations with another player—Violet’s ex—landed Crosby in the spotlight, and it almost cost Violet her job. Aside from announcing their engagement, I doubt Crosby wants to see his name anywhere other than a stats report. “So, he’s out.”
“Cal really agreed to this? It’s not his style to allow so much access,” I ask, using my stylus to cross off names. Guys who don’t have enough public appeal to be featured. Not because they aren’t good at what they do, but because it’s my job to know what—andwho—the public wants.
“He doesn’t like it,” Ava concedes. She pulls the chair out, sitting with a controlled grace I envy. My boss is who I wanted to be when I grew up: professional, elegant, intelligent, kind, and a style icon. When I showed up this spring to support Violet with the public scandal involving her ex-boyfriend, who had recently started playing for the league, I got to know Ava. It was a pleasant surprise that the connection paid off with a job offer when I was desperate for a change and losing hope about whereto go. “There just isn’t much of a choice. We’ve known this was coming for a couple of years, and the contract was negotiated between the league, the owners, and the players’ association. I think Cal is hoping neither of his guys is selected, so he doesn’t have to worry about it. Butifa Midnight is selected, there will be limits on what can and can’t be filmed. That’s where we come in: we’re going to do what we always strive to do and protect our clients. Even from themselves.”
A collective laugh comes from the group, and I return to scanning the roster. I spent Saturday with most of them at the baby shower, but it doesn’t stop me from comparing what I know of them as individuals and what I understand from Violet’s incredibly helpful cheat sheets on their athleticism. Charlie’s name is struck out as I consider how painfully shy he can be at times. Violet swears he’s one of the nicest guys, with a great sense of humor and impeccable manners, but he also adores her like a little sister. When the group gets together, if I can’t find my best friend with her now-fiancé, I usually see her with the tall redheaded Viking. As much as the public would obsess over his striking looks, producers would hate trying to get him to talk.
Obie will flat-out refuse. I’ve known him for years through Violet, and I still feel like we’re in the first week of being group project partners. He likes to play his game and be left alone. He’s not rude, but he also gives us nothing when we try to pull quotes for press releases. It’s unfortunate, he’d make a great story: hometown boy returns for his second season with the team, coached by his parents’ childhood friend. But maybe I could?—
“What about Nikita Baladin?” Everett Wolf, the senior member of our team, lobbies for discussion, interrupting my thoughts. Everett is a former player for the Canadian National Team, bringing a unique perspective to our occupation. He’s player-centric and can explain those idiosyncrasies to the general public better than anyone I’ve met before. His warmtawny skin is smooth except at the creases of his eyes, and his raven hair is worn in a thick braid down his back, soft streaks of gray painted throughout. He steeples his weathered fingers in front of his pursed lips as the room considers.
“I don’t think he’s said more than five words to me in the two seasons he’s played for us,” Trinity says. “He’s…intense.”
“Exactly,” Ava concurs. Her blonde bob floats as she volleys her head from side to side, arms folding into the conference table. “He’s a bit of a mystery, but unlike Charlie, he is willing to deal with the media when we ask. He’s intelligent and quiet, but I’ve never heard a bad word spoken about him from the training staff. He came up from Hartford after making their roster as an EBUG—a story in and of itself.”
“What’s an EBUG?” I interrupt. I’ve learned a lot about hockey and the league since moving here, but I can’t even ice skate. There are still dozens of terms, shorthands, and parts of the game I don’t know or can’t remotely begin to understand. I keep a spreadsheet, so I tap the necessary keys to bring it up now, scrolling through.
“Emergency Back Up Goalie,” Everett explains. I type in the definition as he continues, “Basically, he filled in one night when the team had no other goalie available. I think he was the Zamboni driver at the arena and just out of high school. Anyway, they put him in for the third period, and he shut out the other team. Hartford won two to zero. Baladin was added to the team the following year after gutting his way through try-outs.”
I finish adding the definition, swinging my attention to Vanessa, who twiddles a pen between her fingers. “He’s just so,” she starts, taking a beat to find the right word. “Serious.”
“That’s why he’s so good,” Everett counters. “The fans appreciate his focus. He lives and breathes hockey—except when he leaves the arena. Then it’s all about Natalia.”
“Oh, that will be perfect! She is absolutely adorable. The network will eat that little girl up!” Trinity bounces in her seat, but my stomach drops uncomfortably.
“IfNicky approves having her filmed. That’s completely his choice,” I defend. I know where Trinity is coming from. After witnessing Nicky in dad mode, fans would consume footage of his interactions with Nat, then beg for more. But even though it goes against everything I’ve learned about building public relations, offering up Natalia as a package deal with her famous dad has my protective instincts in overdrive.
“Of course,” Ava soothes. “All right, Nicky is a good choice. I think Leo Hutchinson might appeal to the network, too. He’s just come on to join the first line after Henri’s retirement—those are some big skates to fill—and he performs well on socials.”
“I can see that working,” Vanessa nods, the heads of my coworkers also bobbing in agreement. Ava’s approval is decisive.
“All right, I’ll write up the proposal after we discuss it with the players.” Ava stands from her chair, picking up the presentation clicker she discarded on the table. “I’ll need an alternate name from each of you by the end of this meeting.”
“What if they say no?” I ask, thinking about Nicky and Natalia. I don’t know Leo well enough to consider what his answer will be, but I doubt he’ll turn it down. He’s been in the league for eight years and has a boyish personality that plays well on camera. When he signed his new contract last week, he paid off his parents’ house and traded in the car he’s had since college for a newer,usedSUV. The guy’s a damn Boy Scout.
Nicky, though? He’s committed to the team; there’s no doubt there. He suffered through every single video Violet made him do last season when she was in the social media department without complaint. He’s prompt and polite for all things Midnight; a professional through and through. Outside of hockey, getting to know him has been as difficult as it is to scorepast him. There are moments the wall crumbles, the mask slips, and everyone can catch a glimpse. But he’s guarded and private—a fact I’m not sure will change, even if it’s his employer asking.
“It’s in The Midnight’s interest to get one of our players on the show. The potential for increased revenue, media exposure…I know I don’t have to explain it all to you. The owners want this, so we’re going after it,” Ava says. “Ultimately, it will be the network’s decision. There are plenty of other players they may want to focus on, but we have to do our part and select people.” Ava clicks to the next slide before she speaks again, softer and more reassuring. “Whatever happens, the biggest part of our job is making sure we protect our guys. We’ll vet everyone. Check every contract. Be present for every session of filming. Nothing happens without express permission, okay?”
Three sharp knocksbreak the silence in my office, startling me from my review of comment requests I need to address. I take a quick glance at my desk clock, surprised to see my ten a.m. meeting is five minutes early. I bite back a laugh, considering who’s here to meet with me. When I lean away from my computer screen, Nicky Baladin stands in my doorway.
“Hi.” It’s a single word, but Nicky greeting me first feels like a positive first step. The syllable is somehow warmer coming from him this time than during some of our previous interactions. I’m choosing to take it as a good omen.
He waits until I wave him in before crossing to one of the two chairs I have in front of my desk. The space still lacks personality, the setup completely perfunctory, but I haven’tfound the motivation to try and make it my own yet. In the weeks since the baby shower, he’s trimmed his beard even more, as though he doesn’t fully want to get rid of it. He looks more relaxed today, in a simple white short-sleeved Henley—unbuttoned; medium-wash denim; and low-top sneakers. His hands are wedged in his pockets, but he pulls them free to grip the armrests of the chair when he sinks into it. I’m momentarily mesmerized by the way he flexes his forearms, the corded muscle and veins climbing up his arms to the defined biceps and broad chest. The man is sexy as hell and he’s not even trying. I shake my head to clear the thought, focusing on his piercing blue eyes, locked onto me.
“Hi, thanks for coming,” I finally say, spinning my chair to the part of the L-shaped desk that sits between us. Nicky gives the smallest inclination of his head but doesn’t say anything.More relaxed, not more talkative. Got it.I pull my tablet out of the top desk drawer, tapping to open a new note and remove the stylus from its holder. I write a header before giving all my attention to the goalie sitting in my office. “Right. Ava tells me you agreed to the NHL Network’s documentary. That makes everything from this meeting forwardmyjob.”
