Page 9

Chapter eight

A group of chaos goblins in expensive suits

I’m in my office at Pulse Marketing, halfway through drafting a press release for one of the team’s new sponsorship deals.

Off-season is my favorite time of year.

No back-to-back media scrums. No damage control for poorly timed fights or questionable social media activity. No chasing down players to get their statements straight before the media circus swallows them whole.

Right now, my job is simple: secure high-value partnerships, push the Storm’s brand, and make our players look like community-driven, charitable, well-rounded individuals instead of a group of chaos goblins in expensive suits.

It’s peaceful. Until my phone vibrates across my desk.

Incoming Call: John Raines (Head of PR, Colorado Storm)

Shit. John doesn’t call me unless something has hit the fan at high velocity.

I swipe to answer. “Carlson.”

“We have a situation.”

My pulse spikes. “What kind of situation?”

There’s a pause, just long enough to make my skin itch.

“Chase Walton is trending, and it’s bad.”

Internally, I groan. Of course it’s Chase. Because if there’s one predictable thing in my job, it’s that hockey players are absolute disasters, and Chase Walton is the fucking king of them.

I exhale sharply, gripping the phone a bit tighter. It’s been two weeks.

Two weeks since the wedding. Two weeks since I woke up tangled in him, in his sheets, in the kind of warmth that lingered in my skin for days. Two weeks where I’ve actively avoided every single opportunity to be in the same room as him.

And it’s been hell on Earth.

Not just because Chase Walton is impossible to ignore, but because avoiding him means avoiding everyone else, too.

Charlie and Jake took the kids to Disneyland for a surprise summer vacation, a last trip before the baby comes. Eli and Tamara are on their honeymoon. Most of the team is off on beaches, fishing trips, or holed up in their off-season training routines.

Which means, for the most part, it’s been just me and Chase left in Denver.

And the kicker is, I haven’t spoken to him once.

Not when he came into Pulse to discuss sponsorships, not when we passed each other at the arena.

Not even when he looked at me across the conference room with that smug, unreadable expression like he knew something I didn’t.

And yet somehow, he’s still managed to make my morning exponentially worse.

Fantastic.

“Zoe?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, inhaling deeply. “Define bad.”

Another long pause.

“It’s easier if I show you,” John says finally. “Get to the arena.”

He hangs up, and I stare at my phone, jaw clenching.

What the fuck has he done now?

I shove up from my desk, grab my keys, and storm out of my office, already plotting Chase Walton’s demise.

***

By the time I push through the glass doors of the Colorado Storm’s main offices, I’m already seething, because I know this is bad.

I know because the entire front fucking office is here.

John Raines. The assistant GM. The social media and marketing manager. The team’s legal counsel. Hell, even the damn team psychologist, and— fuck —Coach Benson.

That last one is rare. Coach doesn’t usually sit in on PR stuff, not unless it’s serious.

Whatever Chase did, it’s huge.

The energy in the room is tense. John looks five seconds from a breakdown, while the legal team is grim-faced, tapping at their tablets.

Behind me, the door creaks closed, and John looks up. “Zoe. Good, you’re here. Have a seat.”

I scan the room, my stomach twisting. “Where’s Walton?”

“He’s on his way,” John mutters.

I roll my eyes. Of course he’s late to his own goddamn crisis.

I slide into a chair near the end of the table and fold my hands on top, keeping my expression neutral. I might be close with the Storm players, might be in Chase’s inner circle, but in this room, I’m a professional PR executive.

John clears his throat. “Let’s get started.”

He nods to the social media manager, who turns his laptop around, and my brain short-circuits, because it’s a video.

A very fucking naked video.

The image is blurred, muted, paused before anything explicit, but it doesn’t matter. The damage is done.

For one horrifying second, my vision tunnels.

No.

We were careful. We didn’t film anything. Chase wouldn’t do this to me.

My lungs seize, and my mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, scrambling for any explanation I can think of. Then I register the blonde. The location. The time stamp.

I exhale so hard I nearly pass out.

It’s not us.

I go from paralyzed with terror to murderous in record time.

Beside me, the assistant GM scrunches his eyes closed. “Jesus Christ, Walton.”

Not my words, but I echo the sentiment.

John sighs heavily. “It’s old footage, but it’s already a disaster. It’s been circulating for hours. We’ve issued takedown notices, but”—he gestures vaguely—“it’s the internet.”

I know what that means. This isn’t going away.

“Before we move forward,” legal chimes in, “we need to confirm if there are any additional tapes. Any potential future leaks.”

I don’t move, and neither does anyone else. Because the seat across from me, the one that’s supposed to be filled by the man at the center of this fucking sex tape nightmare, is still empty.

Coach Benson exhales, jaw tightening. “Where the hell is Walton?”

Then, as if summoned by the devil himself, the door suddenly swings open, and there he is. Casual as all hell.

Every head turns, and the room shifts.

Chase Walton doesn’t just walk into a room, he tilts the gravity of it.

Storm hoodie and sweatpants on, just-rolled-out-of-bed hair, his cocky grin already in place.

Every damn thing about him is effortless and so infuriatingly at odds with this PR disaster that has the entire Storm front office sweating.

And that’s part of the problem, because it’s all an act.

This is serious, he should look at least mildly concerned. But instead, he drops into the seat across from me, leans back, and stretches his legs.

John’s eye twitches. “Nice of you to join us.”

Chase shrugs. “Sorry, didn’t realize we were having a full-blown intervention over my personal life.”

Coach’s voice is lethal. “Sit up, Walton.”

Chase tilts his head, and his eyes momentarily flick to mine, but he obeys, straightening just enough to make it look as though he might actually be listening.

John continues. “Let’s get to the point. Chase, do you have any other videos that could surface?”

Chase purses his lips, considering it. “Are we even sure this is mine? Could be AI.”

Legal deadpans. “It’s you.”

Coach crosses his arms. “You proud of this, Walton?”

“Not particularly, Coach, but considering I wasn’t even on this team when it happened, I don’t see why—”

“You’re a Storm player now,” the assistant GM cuts in, voice sharp. “Your name is our name. You should have told us this existed.”

The weight of the room shifts and quietens for a beat, because he’s right. Chase might be one of the Storm’s best players, but that means he’s also a brand. One that the team invests in, markets, and profits from.

And right now, he’s a brand liability.

The legal team murmurs to each other, discussing next steps, while John focuses on me.

“Zoe, we need an immediate strategy. What’s our move?”

I straighten, because this is my job. I spin chaos into order. Reframe disasters into footnotes. Control the narrative before it controls me.

And maybe that’s why I love this job so much. It’s not just strategy, it’s armor. A way to stay ahead of the story, especially when the story gets too close to home.

“First,” I start, “we need a controlled statement. Something that acknowledges the situation without fueling it.”

John nods, motioning for me to continue.

I flip open my notebook, forcing my focus to stay there and not on the fact that I can feel Chase watching me.

“We shut down the worst narratives before they start. No apologies—an apology implies guilt. We go with something neutral but firm, something that signals this is old news. And more importantly, that it isn’t catastrophic.

Chase isn’t a bad person, he’s just a human who made a mistake, like anyone else.

Everyone has a reckless side and makes questionable decisions when they’re young. ”

I take a breath, glancing at Chase. His eyes are unreadable but locked on me, and I know he hears it. The message layered under every word, the defence woven into each syllable.

I’m defending him, of course I am. He’s my friend. An unhinged, ridiculous friend, but a friend nonetheless.

Still, the weight of it settles in my chest. Because we haven’t spoken since the morning after the wedding, haven’t even looked at each other. And now, the first words I direct at him come in the form of a PR strategy meeting over his leaked sex tape.

I clear my throat, tearing my gaze from his.

“Then, we need a counter-story. A distraction.”

Marketing leans in. “What sort of distraction?”

Legal nods and adds, “Something that solidifies his public image.”

The conversation shifts, murmurs picking up around us, a blur of half-formed strategies. The GM looks like he’s teetering on the edge of a stroke, while Coach Benson just shakes his head, arms crossed like he’s personally offended that this is what we’re dealing with in the off-season.

Chase doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even try to contribute, just sits back and lets them pick him apart, dissect him like he’s not here.

But he glances at me quickly and exhales, gaze dropping to the table. And I catch it. A single crack in the act, a flicker of something raw beneath the bravado.

He’s embarrassed.

His easy smirk is still there, still set in place like a shield. But it’s just that—a front. The sex tape, his reputation. The playboy persona that’s never been as real as people think it is. A carefully practiced, paper-thin defense. I wonder if he knows I know that.

That I always have.