“He wants me to date high-profile women,” I mutter, hating the idea.
“That’s always the play with these publicist types,” Hayden says, knowing all too well. Though it worked out for him and Delaney.
My stomach twists, knots. I’m in full pads. Locked in. This is not the time. “I’m not dating someone just for publicity.”
“Good,” Grady says. “Because that would be stupid.”
“Plus,” Fletch adds with a grin, “you’re already in love with April.”
“We’re not doing this again.” My scoff is pathetic, really.
Pierre grins like a jackal. “We’re absolutely doing this again.”
I ignore them and finish getting ready, but my mind keeps circling back to Whitaker’s text. My public image. Endorsements. Career security.
And April.
Always April.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a photo from her with Purdy curled up on my bed with Moose, Buster, and Scout arranged protectively around her like furry bodyguards. Apparently, they’re tuckered out after welcoming the newest addition to the fur-family with a special edition mini pupcake recipe—coconut and carrot flavored. Pupcakes are April’s specialty and her flagship Barkery item, along with biscuits, cookies, bones, and more.
The caption reads: Progress! She let the boys near her without shaking. I think she knows she’s safe now.
My heart does that stupid splooting thing again.
Me: You’re the best. Thank you for staying with them.
April: Where else would I be? Someone has to make sure you remember to eat vegetables when you get home.
Me: I had a salad yesterday.
April: Lettuce on a burger doesn’t count, Clark.
In the background, I hear one of the guys say, “There’s that real deal smile. He must be texting with April. Whitaker could make his life much easier if?—”
Coach Badaszek’s whistle pierces the air.
“Culpepper! Unless that phone is telling you how to stop pucks, put it away!”
“Yes, sir!”
I shove it back in my bag, but April’s text makes me feel lighter. Like maybe I can actually pull off a shutout tonight and shut Whitaker up about my image and—focus. Game. Denver.
I take a deep breath and head out to the ice.
The game is a disaster.
Not a small disaster. Not a “we’ll bounce back” disaster. A full-scale, no-holds-barred, absolute shellacking.
By the end of the first period, Denver is up three. We’ve laid an egg. By the second, it’s four one. The third period is just cruel—they score twice more while we manage a single goal that feels more like pity than pride.
The final score is seven to two.
While I was on the ice, I got shelled. Absolutely lit up. My team left me out to dry a few times, but that doesn’t change the fact that I let in four of those goals. Four.
The locker room after the game is quieter than a library at midnight. Nobody makes eye contact. We all just pack our gear in silence, the weight of the loss pressing down like a ton of granite.
The chartered flight home is even worse. Coach Badaszek sits in the front, arms crossed, looking like he’s planning our funeral. Or maybe just our next practice, which might be worse.
