I’ve never been one to turn down a challenge, especially from a beautiful woman. I line up for a shot—completely unnecessary in the confined space—and put everything I have into it.
The bottle explodes in a satisfying crash against the far wall.
“My turn!” Alessandra squeals, grabbing another stick. “Show me that move again!”
What happens next gets increasingly creative as the tequila flows and inhibitions disappear. Let’s just say hockey sticks aren’t traditionally used for the activities we discover they’re surprisingly effective for.
We’re so caught up in our... experimentation... that none of us notice the security guard until he clears his throat loudly behind us.
“Gentlemen. Ladies.” His voice carries the weary tone of someone who’s seen too much in this job. “I’m going to need you to step away from the equipment.”
Three pairs of eyes widen in perfect synchronized horror.
“Shit,” I breathe, suddenly a lot more sober than I was five seconds ago. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put your clothes back on,” the guard continues, speaking into his radio. “Yeah, we’ve got a Code Blue situation up here.”
“Time to go!” Katerina squeals, already gathering her things and what remains of her dignity.
But there’s nowhere to go. We’re trapped on the observation deck with security blocking the only exit. The women try to play innocent—adjusting their clothes, claiming they were just “learning about hockey”—but my custom equipment scattered around the deck tells a different story.
Within minutes, more security arrives. Then Space Needle management. Then, inevitably, the calls to team headquarters begin.
“Mr. Malone,” the head of security says, checking his clipboard. “Your reservation was for a ‘private hockey demonstration,’ correct?”
I wince. That had seemed like a clever way to explain the equipment when I made the booking. Now it just sounds perverted.
The models, meanwhile, have transformed into completely different people—professional, apologetic, claiming they had no idea what they were getting into. Alessandra mentions her modeling agency. Katerina suddenly develops a thick accent that makes her seem more innocent. Olivia talks about her charity work.
And I’m left standing there shirtless, surrounded by my personalized gear, with no plausible explanation for what security just walked in on.
The next few hours blur together—incident reports, calls to team management, and the gradual realization that I might have actually crossed a line this time.
By the time Roman arrives, I’m sitting alone in the hotel bar, nursing what’s definitely my last drink of the night. The models vanished the moment Space Needle security released us, leaving me to face the music solo.
“Space Needle management is furious,” Roman says without preamble, dropping into the chair across from me. “And before you ask, yes, the team is trying to smooth this over. Again.”
I wince. “Look, I?—”
“Save it.” He holds up a hand. “I’ve heard it all before. The excuses, the promises to do better. But this time is different.”
Fuck. I sit up straighter. “Different how?”
“Coach and I convinced management not to void your contract.”
My stomach drops. “They were going to void my contract? Over some lingerie models?”
Roman’s expression is stone. “Over a pattern of behavior that has become a liability. The Space Needle incident is just the latest headline in what PR is calling your ‘dedicated campaign of self-sabotage.’”
“That’s a bit dramatic,” I mutter, though the nervous twitch in my leg suggests otherwise.
“Is it?” Roman slides his phone across the table. The screen shows a tabloid website, my face splashed across the homepage alongside the yacht incident from last month. “You’re becoming more famous for your exploits off the ice than on it.”
I scroll through the article, my stomach sinking with each paragraph. Photos of me with different women at various events over the past six months. The yacht party. The charity gala. Last week’s restaurant opening where I was photographed leaving with some Instagram influencer whose name I can’t even remember.
“‘Malone’s Merry-Go-Round,’” I read aloud. “‘Seattle’s star forward can’t seem to settle down, cycling through Seattle’s most eligible women like he’s changing jerseys.’”
“It gets worse,” Roman says grimly.
