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“Steele.”

I turn mid-strip, towel around my neck, shirt stuck halfway up my chest. He’s standing by the door with his usual clipboard, but the set of his jaw? That’s not clipboard shit. That’s I’ve got a problem, and your name’s on it.

My gut tightens.

“Yeah?”

He nods toward the hallway. “Come with me.”

No explanation. No bullshit.

Just that quiet finality that tells me I don’t want to know what’s waiting.

I follow.

The hallway stretches long and silent. Every step echoes too loud in my ears. I catch a few staffers darting looks over their shoulders— conversations paused when I pass. That same gut-deep buzz I felt in the locker room—it’s louder now.

Something’s brewing. And it’s got my name stamped across the headline.

Coach’s office door is cracked when we get there. I recognize the voice inside before I see her.

Sharp. Clean. Clipped like she’s carved from glass.

Riley Stevens.

PR.

Fuck.

Coach Barnes is behind the desk when I walk in. No smile. No nod. Just that same silent disapproval he wears like a second jersey.

Next to him stands Riley, all black suit and razor-sharp ponytail, like she’s ready to file a restraining order against me for breathing wrong.

“Liam.” Coach motions for me to sit. “This is Riley Stevens. She’s with PR.”

I drop into the chair across from them, my shoulders still tight with adrenaline from the ice.

“What’s going on?”

Riley wastes no time. “There’s footage of you entering a private club downtown. Name’s not public—yet. But people are talking.”

I freeze.

That party.

That fucking night.

The one I promised myself was a one-time thing. No faces. No consequences. Just sweat, skin, and the kind of release that makes you forget who the hell you are.

“I didn’t break any rules,” I say tightly. “Signed an NDA. It was invite-only.”

Riley nods, but her expression doesn’t shift. “No one’s saying you broke a rule. But rules and headlines don’t play the same game.”

Coach leans forward, elbows on the desk. “We don’t want this spinning out. If it gets picked up by the media, the optics alone could derail the season. Sponsors get twitchy. Fans start speculating.”

Riley picks up again. “We’re redirecting the narrative. Reframing your public image. That means we need something stronger than denial. We need a distraction.”

I scoff. “What kind of distraction?”