Page 25 of For Pucking Real (The Seattle Vipers #4)
NINETEEN
TOBIAS
Now
C oach Lennox claps his hands once, loud enough to snap everyone to attention. "Alright, listen up, you idiots."
We're crammed into the film room, fresh off a flight from Dallas, still smelling like recycled air, sweat, and hotel soap.
Everyone looks half-awake, their eyes heavy-lidded and postures slumped in the uncomfortable plastic chairs.
Everyone except Tor, who somehow always looks like he's ready to go no matter the circumstances.
The man's got superhuman energy reserves, especially impressive considering he's going home to four-month-old Kodah after this. I don't know how he does it.
Coach paces the front of the room like a caged animal, his jaw tight, shoulders tense. The fluorescent lights catch the sheen of sweat on his forehead as he moves. He's a man whose blood pressure clearly depends on how fast he can wrap this up and get us all out of his sight.
"You've got a day off tomorrow," he announces, scanning our tired faces. "I need you all to rest, hydrate, stretch, and for fuck’s sake, don't do anything stupid. I mean it."
Ridley snorts from two rows ahead of me, tilting his chair back dangerously. "Define stupid."
Coach fixes him with a deadpan stare that could freeze lava.
His nostrils flare slightly. "Masters, until recently you of all people knew exactly what kind of stupid I'm talking about.
Thank God for Brea." He holds up his fingers to get his point across, counting off what he considers acts of stupidity, his voice growing more exasperated with each item.
"No public nudity, drunken escapades, punching anyone outside of a rink, and for all that is holy I'm sick and tired of this Hattie chick catching wind of anything going on with my team.
We've had enough stupidity flying around lately to last us the entire damn season. "
There's a ripple of laughter across the room, the kind that comes from a shared history of exactly the kind of antics Coach is referencing.
Even Derrick chuckles, which is rare these days.
The goalie has had a great couple of games when Coach Willis has rotated him in for a period or two.
His confidence seems to be building back slowly after everything that happened to him.
Across the room, Bast just leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching everything with those steely gray eyes like he's already mentally left the building.
Lennox doesn't crack even the hint of a smile.
His expression remains granite. "That means I don't want to see any of your faces at the arena until the day after tomorrow.
Except. . ." His eyes cut toward the back of the room, landing directly on me before sliding to my right.
"Groves. Scott. You're staying. PR wants a word. "
Devan groans beside me, low under his breath, his knee bouncing with sudden tension. "Of course they do."
"Rest of you, get outta here," Lennox barks, waving his hand dismissively. "Try not to go viral unless it's for an actual highlight reel or an act of kindness. Dismissed."
Chairs scrape against the floor, jokes fly through the air, and bags are slung over shoulders.
Within seconds, the room clears out like someone pulled a fire alarm.
A few guys throw us sympathetic looks on their way out, the kind that say ‘better you than me’.
Maxwell murmurs "Good luck," as he slips past, his eyes not quite meeting mine.
There's still that lingering awkwardness between him and anything connected to Derrick.
Tor, ever the captain, claps Devan once on the back before disappearing down the hall, his footsteps fading into the corridor.
Then it's just us and Coach. The sudden quiet is oppressive. He crosses his arms and looks between the two of us like he's trying to decide whether to bench us or beat us over the head with a whiteboard. The vein in his temple pulses visibly.
"You two either love each other, hate each other, or love to hate each other.
I don't know anymore, and I don't care," he says, voice flat as a frozen pond.
"But whatever's going on, it's got to stop bleeding onto my ice and on the goddamn internet.
I've got sponsors calling, management breathing down my neck, and my even my own wife is asking me questions I don't have answers to. "
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying not to wince. "Coach, the?—"
He raises a hand, palm out, shutting me down instantly. "Save it. PR's got the floor. I'm just the messenger of your doom."
The door opens with a soft click and in walks Marla Reese, our media relations manager.
She's a force of nature packed into five-foot-three of pure efficiency, tablet in hand, navy blue pants suit with a Vipers logo pin pinned to her lapel, red lipstick as sharp as her tone.
Her heels click purposefully across the floor as she approaches.
"Gentlemen," she says, nodding curtly, taking a seat in front of us. She crosses her legs and fixes us with a look that makes me feel like I'm in the principal's office. "We've got a situation."
She flips her tablet around and there it is: Hattie's Interlude #280, plastered across social media, already dissected on TikTok, meme’d to death, and screenshot into oblivion.
There's a zoomed-in photo of me and Devan walking in Dallas, hoodies up, fingertips brushing as we navigate the late-night streets.
Honestly, we were just walking to get some late night Chinese after everyone else had gone to bed.
There was nothing salacious happening there.
I hate how easily the press can warp the narrative, how they can take something innocent and twist it into clickbait.
Then there's another one of us boarding the plane.
How they managed to get that shot is beyond my comprehension.
The airport security is supposed to be tight for team departures.
The gossip about us sharing a set of headphones was a guess, but an accurate one.
Our team's flight crew have all signed NDAs so we know it wasn't them who leaked that bit.
Someone's watching us, documenting every interaction like we're specimens under glass.
My stomach drops at the picture all of this paints, the implications swirling like a storm.
I wonder how we're going to explain this without making things worse.
We aren't in a relationship, well, not yet, it's all too new, too fragile, too complicated with Lia in the mix.
Forcing this conversation won't help either of us.
The pressure of public scrutiny is the last thing we need while we're figuring things out.
Devan whistles low, the sound cutting through my spiraling thoughts. "Damn. She's thorough."
"She's nuclear," Marla says, her perfectly manicured nail tapping against the screen. "And this one's spreading like wildfire. It's not just fan blogs anymore. ESPN's PR team emailed me this morning for comment. Men's Health wants an interview. You two are trending in seventeen countries."
Coach pinches the bridge of his nose like he's already regretting every decision that led to coaching professional hockey. His eyes close briefly, and I swear I can hear him counting to ten in his head.
Marla keeps going, her voice clipped and professional. "So. Is there something going on? Because we need to get ahead of this now. If this is just speculation, we'll handle it one way. But if you're. . .together, or becoming something, or planning a heartfelt locker room reveal?—"
"We're not," I cut in, perhaps too quickly. The words feel like sandpaper in my throat. "We. . .it's not like that." I quickly close my mouth, unsure what to say that won't make this worse. The truth is too complicated, too raw, too personal to lay out for PR strategies.
"We knew each other in college," Devan adds, which feels like a cold slap even though I know he doesn't mean it that way. His voice is steady, but I can see the tension in how he holds his shoulders. "We've got history. Old conflict that hadn't been resolved. That's it."
I keep my face neutral, even as the word ‘history’ sinks like lead in my chest. Three years of secret touches, hidden smiles, and whispered promises reduced to ‘history’. I know it's necessary, but it still stings.
Marla nods, clearly unconvinced but professional enough to let it slide.
Her eyes flick between us, cataloging every micro-expression.
"Okay. Then here's what's going to happen.
We'll release a short statement saying that the rumors are unfounded, that the altercation in L.A.
has been resolved, and that you're focused on the season.
Clean, tight, and boring. Exactly how I like it. "
"Understood," Devan says, his voice steady. "And we're good, Coach. Promise."
Coach Lennox grunts, the sound full of skepticism. "You'd better be. I'm too old for love triangles and soap opera drama. I coach hockey, not direct the Days of Our Lives ."
Marla raises a perfectly shaped brow. "Triangles?"
Lennox points at the tablet, jabbing his finger at the screen.
"We all know who the mother of Scott's daughter is, Marla.
You think Hattie's not gonna sniff out that baby angle next?
If there's a third wheel in this situation, it's about to become a fucking carousel.
And I don't need that kind of distraction mid-season. "
I mutter under my breath, just loud enough to be heard, "We're working on that part." My cheeks heat at the admission.