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My stomach took an immediate dive. Penny was the team’s marketing manager, and a call from the communications team on our day off—especially three days before the mandatory Christmas break—was never good.

Briefly, I considered letting it go to voicemail, but I was too much of a rule follower for that, so I picked it up on the third ring. “Hunter speaking.”

“Hey, Hunter. So sorry to bug you on a day off, but we have a bit of a situation,” Penny sing-songed, her voice far too chipper for something described as a situation. “Connor Hale’s son ended up in the ER last night—he’s fine, but Connor’s still there, so he won’t be able to make the event at the Portland Food Bank with Bell this afternoon.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, staring down at my neatly organized drawer and wondering what this had to do with me. “Okay.”

“Local news is going to be there, plus a handful of our sponsors and the food bank’s top-tier donors,” she continued. “We need a replacement, and you’re our best option. Your jersey sales are third only to Bell and Morrison this quarter, and that’s likely only due to his surprise announcement.”

“So why not get him to do it?”

“Well, honestly. The press release loves the legacy angle with your dad.”

Any bit of satisfaction I might have felt about my jersey sales died instantly.

I disliked dealing with the media at the best of times, but any time the team trotted me out to remind everyone about my connection to The Great Robert Callahan, my pulse spiked into the triple digits—which was quite the feat given my regular resting heart rate.

“Come on, Hunter.”

“Porter and I have plans today.”

We didn’t, but after last month when Penny had let a reporter badger me for twenty minutes straight about comments my dad had made about the Marauders on a hockey podcast, I wasn’t all that inclined to help her out.

“Are your plans more important than charity. We really need you to step up here.”

God, I really hated it when people tried to guilt me into doing things—mostly because I fell for it every time. I was such an easy mark, especially for charity. It wasn’t the food bank’s problem that I didn’t trust Penny or the media.

“Look, I’ll do it, but only if I can talk Porter into coming, too.”

It took Penny long enough to reply that I wondered if maybe the call had dropped. I pulled the phone from my ear to check the screen. Nope, still connected.

“Hunter,” she chided, dropping into that patronizing tone she used when she was trying to manage one of us. “Porter isn’t really the draw that you and Bell are. The sponsors and donors want the team’s marquee names. Whether you like it or not, you’re the future of this franchise, and we need everyone to start thinking of you that way. Porter doesn’t really factor into those plans.”

Whether or not Penny Hartley actually believed what she was saying or was simply trying to get me to go along with the plan was of no consequence to me. I knew she already thought I was difficult; the least I could do was live up to the reputation.

“It’s both of us, or I’m not coming.”

She let out a loud, beleaguered-sounding sigh. “Fine. Bring Porter. I don’t care.”

Then she gave me the address, told me to ask for a woman named Sandra when we arrived, and rattled off a list of mandatory talking points before hanging up.

I dropped the phone onto the bed, wiped my palms down my thighs, and walked out into the living room to find Mikey sprawled sideways on the couch, his thumbs gnashing into the controller and his eyes glued to the ginormous television.

“We’ve been drafted into emergency PR duty,” I said, stopping at the edge of the rug.

“What? No. Fuck that, Cal,” he said, his eyes never leaving the screen. “It’s our one real day off since Thanksgiving. I want to just sit here and rot.”

“It’s for the food bank,” I explained, figuring if he knew it wasn’t just a bullshit meet and greet, he might be more amenable. Mikey didn’t loathe the press the way I did—he also had far less exposure to them—but he knew how I felt about them, and ever since that nightmare press conference, he’d developed a sort of “in solidarity” attitude toward them. “Hale was booked with Bell, but his kid spent the night in the hospital, so they need someone to cover.”

Mikey’s thumbs stopped moving, and he hit pause, the sounds of gunfire and explosions going silent. He squinted up at me. “Why didn’t you lead with that? Now I feel like an asshole.”

Mikey pulled my Rover into the food bank’s parking lot in the industrial part of town, our tires crunching over a layer of salt, and came to a stop a few spots over from where Bell was leaning against his ridiculously bright blue G Wagon, a special paint job the dealership had done just for him.

Bell glanced up, lifting his hand to wave, his face breaking into a wide smile. For a brief moment, he appeared surprised to see Mikey, but then he recovered, seeming genuinely glad.

“Hey, Callahan. Porter.” He gave us an up-nod in greeting, sliding his phone into his jacket pocket. “Thanks for filling in.”

“Happy to do it,” I said, though my tone must have conveyed the opposite since Bell smirked, his left brow arched high. “How’s Hale’s kid?”