Page 43

Silas Wayne

Over the last four years, I’ve seen players from the Pirates defy reporters and odds.

It started with Jules Dupont’s harsh reprimand of the reporters who were supposed to ask him about hockey. Then came the quiet way Las Vegas’s goalie, Bear, just went about his business, and displayed his relationship with another man out in the open without explanation or excuses. Silent and steady.

That continued with star left wing Benny Olsen.

The world only found out he was also in a relationship with a man because Jules posted a picture of four all-male couples than included Wyatt “Milkman” Perry and his partner as well.

And now, after they won the Stanley Cup for the third time in four seasons, Nikolay “Santa” Brotnik and Charlie Heart left no doubt that they were very much in love.

The picture of them—foreheads touching, faces stretched with wide smiles as their teammates celebrated around them—had made the rounds in hockey media.

I’m not just aware or paying attention because it’s my job.

Fact is, being the head of PR for this organization is the easiest job I’ve ever had, even easier than being Dad’s “assistant” when I was nine—even if it does make me panic constantly, it’s not hard.

Like Tristan warned me when he called me about it, behind closed doors everyone thought my father or Ivan had gotten me the job. Cue the eye roll .

I don’t care—now.

After I earned an internship at the most prestigious PR firm in LA straight out of college, I understood that there would never be any hiding who I am. Or, more precisely, who my father is. I’m never going to be ashamed that he’s the greatest hockey player in history—even if people say that’s Jules now, he’ll never beat my dad in my eyes.

I met Tristan Jones when he was collaborating with my boss’s boss there. And he took a liking to me.

He asked me what my goals were, professionally, and I couldn’t answer him at the time. But he was there when, during a meeting I was taking notes on, I had an idea that ended up resuscitating an actress’s career.

He was impressed, as was my boss’s boss. My boss on the other hand, not so much. He made the next six months I spent there miserable for me, but then Tristan called.

After that four week stint in the hospital when I was fifteen, when they told me I’d never be able to be a professional hockey player, I never thought I’d ever want to be this close to the sport that broke my heart.

But it wasn’t only the fact that my work life was hell—thanks to that asshole boss—that made me take the interview with Gab. It was the honest yearning that will never leave my heart.

Hockey is in my blood, and even though I can never play, it will never not be part of me.

After I accepted Gab’s offer—and only after—I allowed myself to worry over Ivan.

Worry over how he would take it. Take me working for the same team as him.

It hasn’t gone well . . .

To say the fucking least .

I fucked up there, no two ways about it.

But I’m not the only one.

In any case, I barely have time to worry over Ivan—or Eagle, as they call him here—since from the moment I got here I’ve been putting out fires left and right. I’ve also been coordinating about a million things, and I can’t deny that the hard work is the best distraction I could ever have asked for.

Santa and Charlie being together—and a picture of them coming out right before the second round of the playoffs started—kept me more than busy enough .

I also can’t deny that the moment I realized a shitstorm was about to hit, I felt every ounce of inexperience in my twenty-three-year-old body. But then I reminded myself that it was time to step up, time to prove I could do this job well, to myself and to Gab.

Thanks to Santa and Charlie’s bravery, it wasn’t hard to prove myself at all.

It’s now two weeks after that incredible win, and though it’s the off-season for the players and the coaching staff, there’s no rest for the PR and Marketing departments.

I still have to stay on top of things even if it’s from the apartment I call home. Commentators and has-beens with YouTube channels are still debating—as if there was anything to debate—whether Santa and Charlie’s relationship is a good or bad thing.

Every time I hear someone question them I want to scream.

They won the fucking Stanley Cup.

Charlie won the Lady Byng Trophy and Santa the James Norris Trophy.

What the fuck are you talking about?

I’m a trained publicist, though, so I know better.

Players, with their emotions running wild and the adrenaline constantly pumping through their veins... they can have outbursts like that.

I can’t.

Not anymore .

At least, not if I want to be the best damn publicist in the world.

For the first fifteen years of my life all I dreamed of was being the next best hockey player in the world.

That ship didn’t sail, it wrecked, it was bombed, and then it sank into the deepest pit of the ocean.

The drive to excel came back, though, a few years later, when I had to face reality and choose something to do with my life. I chose PR because I saw what an impact it had on my father’s life, on Uncle Ruko’s life too, and bitter or not I understood, even at seventeen, that I still wanted to have a positive impact on the world. Even if it was in the world of media.

Tonight, lonely and feeling just a little bit insecure in the face of my endless to-do list for the off season, I know I should log out.

I should turn off the TV, close my laptop, and just go to bed to stare at my ceiling.

But since Dad asked me to tune in to his show tonight—something he’s never done before—I’m not going to have a chance to do that.

Instead, I’m pretty sure I’m about to add a few more things to my list.

With a sigh, I turn up the volume of the TV and try to relax on the couch in front of it as the music of the show comes on.

This particular live sports show has three panelists at all times and some guests now and then. Retired head coach of the New York Demons, Carl Nilsson, retired defenseman for the LA Empire, Ruko “Hulk” Jankowski, and retired forward for the LA Empire, Paul “the Dagger” Wayne, also known as my father.

I have no clue how Uncle Ruko and my dad can stand the shit Nilsson spews on the regular, but that’s not my problem and I’m not getting involved. I shudder when they show his ugly-ass face during the intro of the show, and I understand why my father asked me to tune in right when they begin the first topic to discuss.

“What is going on over at the Pirates?” Nilsson asks with an incredulous frown, and shakes his head. Then the picture of Santa and Charlie at the Stanley Cup final comes up on the screen. “These kinds of distractions and problematic actions are what happens when you have issues stemming from the top of leadership.”

“You’re right,” my father drawls with an eye roll. “When a woman is leading a team, all her players somehow find happiness and they get more wins than any other team. Oh, the horror,” he mocks, then he turns to Ruko and raises an eyebrow. “Anything you want to add, Hulk?”

“I think it’s best if I stay quiet or else I’m going to remember my old ways and slam someone against a wall.”

I can’t help but snort at the thought of it. The look he’s sending Nilsson is vicious enough to be funny to me, but to the rest of the world he probably looks scary as fuck.

“That’s probably wise then.” Dad smiles and turns back to Nilsson, who doesn’t value his life much, it seems .

“You’re just saying that because your kids work and play at that organization.” My heart stops at his words, but Dad starts talking before the panic can take over.

“We’re saying that ’cause it’s the truth,” he snaps. “Jules Dupont just won his sixth Hart Memorial Trophy and his fourth Stanley Cup. When has any other player in the league ever done that?” He tilts his head, clearly being a smartass. “Oh right, not since I did it seventeen years ago, so maybe you should listen to what the players of this league actually think.

“People around the league are still voting for the men playing on that team as the best there are. Nikolay Brotnik just won the James Norris Memorial Trophy for the first time in his career, and it was only because he was taken off the ice for more than a few games this season that everyone around the league finally realized what a master he is at his craft. Nobody cares that they’re in relationships with other men. And nobody should. Not the fans, not the front offices of other teams, not the league, and especially not a nobody journalist like you.”

I can tell the program is cut abruptly and ads start running, so something must’ve happened.

Nothing is ever truly live TV after all.

But... Dad knew he was going to go off on Nilsson like that.

Why would he have asked me to watch otherwise?

What does he want from me now?

The answer comes two minutes later in the form of a group text created by my mother... and Ruko’s ex-wife, Aunt Lyla.

They’re not actually my aunt and uncle, not by blood, but they earned those names from me and Charlotte. And since Lyla and Ruko’s divorce was the friendliest divorce in the history of divorces, she still is, and always will be Aunt Lyla.

She also happens to be my mom’s best friend, so I’m not surprised that they’d band together for something, but I am surprised when I see who the other members of the group are.

It’s Charlotte, Alexei, Ivan, and me.

And there’s only one message—one order.

Elle Wayne

Family vacation at the Adirondacks cabin.

Then comes the second order.

Lyla Storm

Tuesday.

There hasn’t been a family call like this one in a long time—not since I was fifteen and I told my best friend in the world I never wanted to speak to him again.

The coward who lives inside me, the one who made me tell those horrible lies, comes out once more with a new dangerous idea.

I could ignore it .

Another text comes through right as those words echo in my mind.

Ivan

I’ll be there.

No , I tell the asshole in my head.

There’s no way I’m not going.

It’s time to face the consequences of my actions.