Page 2

Max

"Look at Stanley, not the camera," Tracy calls from behind the videographer. "We want natural, Max. Like you're just hanging with your girl."

I adjust my stance, deliberately casual as I crouch next to Stanley. She sits perfectly still, both of us in our signature matching aviators, though hers are custom-fitted for a golden retriever's face. The green screen behind us will be replaced with action shots from previous competitions.

"Better," Tracy says. "Now the lines."

"When Stanley Puck and I compete, we're not just showing off our tricks." I scratch behind her ear, and she leans into my touch right on cue. "We're playing for something bigger."

"Cut." Tracy steps forward, her clipboard clutched to her chest. "Perfect.

We'll add the specific contest names and dates in post-production, after you win.

This behind-the-scenes footage will blow up social media when we release it in September—fans love seeing how their favorite duo prepares for competition. "

She taps her clipboard. "Max, again. Less serious. Remember, your fans love the playful Max."

Right. Playful Max. The one who posts Instagram reels of Stanley "helping" me train, wearing a mini Nighthawks jersey. The one who makes headlines for bringing his dog to post-game interviews.

"From the top," I say, plastering on my media smile. "Stanley, reset."

She immediately straightens, and I hear two interns near the craft services table sigh.

"God, the way she just knows ," one whispers. "And those matching sunglasses..."

"Forget the dog," the other intern says. "Look at his arms in that t-shirt. How is he even single?"

I pretend not to hear them. It's part of the persona—Max Dalton, NHL star, devoted dog dad, perpetually unattached but always charming. The perfect fantasy.

If they only knew.

"Rolling," the videographer calls.

This time, I let my smile turn mischievous.

"When Stanley and I compete, we don't just show off our tricks.

" I wink at the camera. "We're playing for keeps.

This fall, we're entering the biggest dog competitions in the country.

Why? Because every win brings us closer to our goal: raising $100,000 for the Nashville Children's Leukemia Center. "

Stanley barks once, right on cue.

"Perfect!" Tracy claps. "That's the one. Now let's get the close-up of Stanley with the 'Paws for a Cause' banner."

As the crew adjusts lighting, a tall figure emerges from the shadows.

Otto, Stanley's trainer—and the man responsible for making us look like the perfect team.

Six-foot-plus of stern German efficiency, he fills out his black fitted t-shirt and cargo pants like they were tailored for him.

His blond hair is military- short, jaw strong enough to chisel ice.

He's as imposing as he is intimidating, and just as invisible to the public eye.

"Ze dog is getting tired," he says in his clipped German accent. "Ten minutes, maybe, zen she needs rest."

I nod. Stanley's good, but even she has limits. "Tracy, we need to wrap soon."

"Just the banner shots," she promises. "Then you can do the meet-and-greet outside. Fans are already lining up."

Otto's expression doesn't change, but I catch his slight head tilt. Time to disappear , it says. He's as much a part of our success as I am, but the public can't know that. They need to believe it's just me and Stanley, the inseparable duo.

"Hey, Tracy?" I call as Otto starts to fade back. "What if we included Otto in some of the campaign photos? He travels with us anyway, and—"

"No." She doesn't even look up from her phone. "The fans want the fantasy, Max. You and Stanley, partners in crime. Adding anyone else breaks the magic."

"He's part of the team."

"He's part of the staff ." She finally meets my eyes. "Look, I get it. But this campaign needs to be perfect. We're keeping it under wraps until September for a reason. If you don't win both competitions..."

She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to. I know what's at stake.

Stanley nudges my hand, and I automatically reach to adjust her sunglasses.

They're her favorite pair—custom-made with extra padding around the ears.

The fans think it's just another quirky Max-and-Stanley thing, like our matching hockey jerseys. Or the way she howls when I score—never realizing it’s because I always lift my stick in the air, same angle, same cue.

"Okay, banner time," Tracy announces. "Max, center frame. Stanley, left side. And... action!"

I strike my signature pose, one thumb hooked in my belt loop, the other hand resting on Stanley's head. The camera loves us. The fans love us. And soon, we'll turn that love into something that matters.

"Remember, everyone!" Tracy says later as we prepare to face the crowd outside.

"No hints about the competitions. As far as anyone knows, you're just doing your usual summer appearances.

No one—and I mean no one—can know about the prize money going to the leukemia center.

If word gets out before we win, or worse, if Max and Stanley don't win.

.." She meets my eyes. "We can't give these kids hope unless we're absolutely sure we can deliver. "

"Got it." I check Stanley's leash, more out of habit than necessity. She never pulls, never strays. "Otto?"

"Already gone through the back."

“Tracy,” I say quietly, “you got a couple minutes?”

“Two.” She glances at her phone. “I’m counting.”

“I get what you said earlier. About Otto being staff. About the audience wanting the fantasy. I do. But… it would be fair to give him some credit.”

She sighs, not even pretending to pause her phone scrolling. “Max. I thought you got it.”

She looks up. “Sponsors give money to the Nighthawks. The team allocates it to your little dog-and-star show. That budget covers everything Stanley’s campaign needs—Otto’s salary, her gear, the travel, the camera crew. Your job is to smile. Ours is to decide what sells.”

“Still,” I say, “Otto—”

“If you ever stop donating all your money to charities and whatever else you blow the rest on,” she interrupts, “and start paying for his salary out of your own pocket? Then sure. You get to make decisions. Until then, take care of those muscles and leave the rest to us.”

I don’t say anything.

She softens. A little. “Look. I know it sucks. But the people who pay are the bosses. And this—this works. Don’t mess with it.”

“And… your two minutes are up.” She hands me a fresh pair of aviators. "Ready to be adored?"

I slip them on, matching Stanley's gleaming lenses. "Always."

The doors open to screams and camera flashes. Stanley stays perfectly at heel as we step into the sun, both of us wearing identical smiles. Well, hers might be more of a pant, but the fans eat it up anyway.

"Max! Max, over here!"

"Stanley, look this way!"

A reporter shouts over the others: "Max! Who will be your partner for the couples portion of America's Top Team Show this fall?"

I flash my signature grin. "Stanley's the only girl for me. We're sticking to solo competitions."

I wave, point, pose. The perfect showman with his perfect dog. And if sometimes I catch myself searching the shadows where Otto disappeared, wondering what it would be like to share the spotlight honestly... well, that's not part of the script.

We have only one week until the Bark & Bond Championship . One week to perfect our routine, to make sure we win. Because losing isn't an option.

Not when I'm trying to save kids like Emmy.

Stanley bumps my leg, grounding me. I scratch her ear, and she leans in—not because Otto trained her to, but because she knows. She always knows.

"Come on, girl." I lead her toward the crowd. "Let's give them what they want."

After all, that's what I do best. Even if what they want isn't exactly real.

But the cause? The reason behind all this?

That's the realest thing about me.