Page 2

TWO

lauren

PR rule number one: expect disaster. Just when everything seems under control, the universe will blindside you like a defenseman you never saw coming. That’s especially true in my line of work.

As the public relations manager for the Carolina Crushers, an AHL hockey team with a roster full of hot tempers and hockey flow, I’ve learned to anticipate catastrophe before my morning coffee.

It’s the job I’ve dreamed about since high school, ever since I accidentally discovered I have a talent for spinning the truth.

Not for myself, mind you. For other people.

In high school, I ran the student newspaper—writing glowing features on star athletes and the occasional hard-hitting exposé when someone got caught partying before a big game.

Now, I extinguish sparks before they ever hit the news.

My daily routine includes monitoring fan forums, tracking player socials, and wading through the cesspool that is hockey Reddit—home of sports conspiracy theories and drama-stirrers with usernames like “PuckDaddy97.”

Because my biggest dread is missing something small, something that seems harmless at first until it spreads. And suddenly, it’s not just a tiny spark—it’s a five-alarm, career-ending inferno. And I’ll be the one holding the matches if I don’t see it coming .

For the last few weeks, things have been quiet as we prepare for the end-of-season playoffs and summer break. Too quiet. And the silence is making me twitchy.

I take a sip of my iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso—a drink my sister lovingly refers to as “complicated like me”—and settle into my usual table at Magnolia Brew. From here, I begin my daily scroll through the Crushers Fan Forum, where I mentally check off potential PR fires.

End of Season Thread:

Who ’ s your favorite player this season?

stephloveshockey

My vote is for Leo the “Ego” Anderson. A semi-reformed hothead, thanks to his figure skating girlfriend, Victoria.

crushersfan19

Only man I trust to babysit my future children is Brax “Big Mac” MacPherson. Would take a puck to the face for his wife, Jaz, and she’d probably be the one to stitch him up.

jenifersmusings43

“Mr. Fix It” Lucian Lowe. Possibly an actual cinnamon roll in a human man’s body.

goaliegirls4

Has anyone figured out what’s actually going on with the new goalie, Miles? Because he has “emotionally guarded hero” written all over him.

badboyshockeyclub

Rourke is charming—in the “your parents would hate him” way.

I swipe through post after post until I get to the one player who’s a rule-follower to his core with an advanced degree in exasperating me.

hockeyfanforlife

You guys are totally sleeping on the quiet one. “Sheriff” Tate Foster. Logical, broody, and rocking serious hot-professor vibes. Have you seen his dimples? He doesn’t smile often, but when he does…life-changing.

And unfortunately, I can confirm. His dimples are stupidly handsome in a way that’s personally inconvenient.

Dark eyes behind those glasses, the rolled-up sleeves folded perfectly to show off forearms that look like Michelangelo sculpted them, that rarely seen smile that melts common sense faster than ice cream in July.

Tate is a paradox. The guy who turns in his player media packet early, argues about the Oxford comma, and grumbles his way through every PR ask. And yet, he’s the one I watch most closely.

Because in my experience, the quiet ones are usually the ones who blow up your whole life.

And I have a feeling Tate Foster is just one headline away from becoming my next PR day terror.

As I skim the hockey Reddit boards, the click of heels cuts through the morning chatter.

Jeneva Mack strolls into the cafe like she owns it, her silver cropped curls a striking contrast against her brown skin. Jeneva wears loud colors, big jewelry, and even bigger opinions.

She waves to Delilah, Sully’s Beach’s resident sweetheart and self-appointed prayer chain coordinator, who waits next to the counter, sipping sweet tea and pretending she’s never heard a swear word in her life.

Which is impressive, considering she owns a foul-mouthed parrot named Big Bertha, who curses like a sailor and somehow still gets invited to church potlucks.

Delilah insists everything can be solved with homemade brownies, even when what’s needed is a come-to-Jesus talk, followed by a few choice insults by Big Bertha.

They couldn’t be more different, but there’s one thing they always agree on: Sully’s Beach gossip is a gift to be shared, and they are its most generous messengers.

“Oh, Delilah,” Jeneva says, looking over Delilah’s outfit. “You wore white again? That’s optimism I don’t have.”

“Well, I believe in being optimistic,” Delilah says.

“Mm-hmm. And I believe in zero filters, which is why I’m telling you your underwear is as clear as day in the back of those pants. You trying to catch a man or what?”

Delilah’s cheeks turn as pink as her cotton-candy lipstick. “I most certainly am not!”

“Good,” Jeneva says. “Because those granny panties aren’t exactly reeling them in.”

“My what ?” Delilah twists like she’s trying to get a rear view but gives up. “I didn’t come here to discuss my”—she lowers her voice to a near whisper—“ undergarments .”

She glances around, then leans in, hands wringing like she’s torn between telling Jeneva some news or submitting it to the church prayer chain first. “You wouldn’t believe what I heard this morning. And you have to promise not to tell.”

“Oh, girl, I won’t tell,” Jeneva says. “I’ve kept the secret about who got caught skinny-dipping in the lake at church camp since 1974.”

Delilah frowns. “Wasn’t that you ?”

Jeneva cackles wickedly. “And I still haven’t told.” Then she sets her big red purse down and throws a few dollars on the counter. “So what is it this time? Did they forget to include the craft bazaar in the bulletin on Sunday?”

“You would know if you came to church more regularly,” Delilah says, tipping her head to the side sassily.

“I attend once a month,” Jeneva says, picking up her black coffee. “The good Lord knows church attendance isn’t getting anyone through the pearly gates.”

“You don’t stay for potluck, either.”

“Course not. I’ve got plans after church. I head to the VFW to play cards with the men. ”

Delilah gasps. “Jeneva Mack! Chasing men at your age?”

“Darlin’, I’m not chasing. I’m just strolling along and letting them catch up,” she says with a wink.

Delilah adds another packet of artificial sweetener to her sweet tea. “Well, this news is about that fancy hockey gala last night.”

I perk up immediately. Because I was at that gala.

And as far as I know, everything went off without a hitch—VIP sponsors were schmoozed, donors were dazzled, and even the NHL commissioner and his wife showed up for the first time.

The event is so important we require every player to attend because our biggest sponsors would trade their firstborn children for five minutes with the pros.

But if Delilah’s got that gleam in her eye, something definitely went sideways.

Fixing reputations is my specialty. I’ve been polishing tarnished images since high school, when I turned our resident bad-boy quarterback into a sympathetic hero with one carefully crafted story.

I was all set to write an article calling him out on his party-boy behavior until he pulled me aside and asked me to consider a different angle.

One that painted him as a misunderstood golden boy instead of a reckless screwup.

And then he smiled at me—one of those ruin-your-judgment kind of grins.

That was the moment I realized how powerful the right story could be, and how dangerous it was to fall for the person behind it.

In exchange, he promised to take me to prom—a deal I thought was wildly generous at the time, because I wasn’t exactly known for racking up dates.

So I agreed, writing a heartfelt story portraying him as a concerned teen dealing with his grandma’s declining health (it turned out to be low blood pressure, but who’s checking facts?) and how he coped by volunteering with sick kids (required community service—but no one needed to know that).

The story worked like magic. Instead of facing suspension, teachers patted his shoulder and told him they were praying for his grandma. The bad-boy reputation? Forgotten.

That’s when I realized something powerful: a well-told story could change everything.

Funny how I fixed his story, but my happy ending didn’t make it to the final draft.

Because even though he promised to take me to prom, what he actually meant was that he’d drop me off at the door while coupling up with someone else.

Lesson learned: never waste your PR magic on someone who doesn’t deserve a headline.

Now that I’ve moved up to a professional sports team, my job isn’t just cleaning up messes—it’s preventing them from making it past the group chat. And that’s why I’m desperate to hear the gossip about the hockey gala. Because it’s not just the players’ reputations on the line. It’s my job.

I lean closer, taking a sip of my coffee.

“Oh, girl,” Jeneva croons, fanning herself with a napkin. “I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall. Hockey hunks in suits? That’s more delicious than my homemade shoofly pie with extra molasses.”

“Well, rumor has it someone accidentally insulted the NHL commissioner’s wife without realizing who she was,” Delilah says, her eyes as big around as Jeneva’s hoop earrings.

“No! Who would be that dumb?” Jeneva gasps. “Was it Rourke? That man’s smirk promises to wreak havoc on your life—and his wink makes you want to let him.”

“That’s the shocking part. It wasn’t Rourke. It was the one with the glasses…” She pauses, and I lean forward at the same moment she whispers, “Tate Foster.”

“Sheriff?” Jeneva shrieks, so the whole coffee shop notices.

I gasp, bumping my iced coffee and sending it cascading across the table. “No, no, no!” I scramble to save my laptop, ice cubes skittering to the floor.

“Oh, honey!” Delilah cries, spinning around. “Let me get some napkins!” She hustles over with a handful.

“Thanks,” I say, blotting at the coffee spill before turning to her with a grateful smile. I’m not letting this gossip train leave the station without me. “I’m so sorry to eavesdrop but”—I gently catch Delilah’s arm—“did you say something about Tate Foster? I’m the Crushers’ PR manager.”

Jeneva’s eyes twinkle like she’s just found buried treasure. “Well, if you’re the PR girl, you’re gonna have your work cut out for you.”

Delilah leans toward me. “Apparently, the commissioner’s wife struck up a friendly chat with Tate. Asked what he thought of the new league initiatives.”

“And?” I ask, not wanting to hear how Tate answered. Because I already know.

“He went on this calm, very detailed rant,” Delilah says. “Something about them being short-sighted and designed to impress people who care more about photo ops than actual gameplay. Then he added, ‘Probably his wife’s idea.’”

I groan and drop my head. Where in the hockey was I?

Oh, right. There was that brief moment when I’d had to drag Jaz out of the gala to make her prop up her swollen ankles.

She’d insisted on wearing heels while pregnant, and I couldn’t, in good conscience, let her go all night without putting her feet up.

Brax was in the middle of wooing a bunch of sponsors for next year, so he couldn’t take her himself.

So I stepped out for all of twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes. That’s all it took for Tate to implode a year of my PR efforts.

The man cannot help himself when it comes to hockey policy. He knows every rule, every clause buried deep in the league handbook—and has opinions about them all.

My stomach plummets as I think about how awful this is going to look if the press finds out, wondering if even my PR superpowers are enough to save a man who manages to be both infuriatingly stubborn and distractingly handsome at the same time.

“Oh, that wasn’t even the worst part,” Delilah goes on, her eyes gleeful with the kind of joy only reserved for other people’s dirt. “Apparently, the commissioner’s wife brought her cat last night—on a leash.”

I can’t help my unpleasant grimace. “Yes. That was an unexpected detail. But it’s the first time the commissioner has ever come to the gala, and he specifically requested we accommodate her pet.”

Delilah leans in, clearly relishing telling me everything. “Well, according to Leo, the cat kept trying to climb Tate’s leg like he was a scratching post.”

Jeneva cackles. “Girl, I’d climb that man too if I had nine lives.”

“And then ,” Delilah says, like she’s pounding the final nail in my career’s coffin, “he told the commissioner’s wife—to her face—that cats shouldn’t be allowed in public if they couldn’t keep their paws to themselves.”

I blink. “Please tell me he didn’t.”

“Oh, but honey,” Delilah says, patting my hand like she’s at a funeral. “He did. Then he added—and I quote—‘Your cat molested me, ma’am.’”

Jeneva is howling now, smacking the table. “The man got molested by a cat. I can’t breathe.”

“And just to be clear,” I ask deliberately, bracing myself, “he actually said the word?—”

“ Mo-les-ted ,” Delilah confirms solemnly. “By her feline. That’s the word he used.”

“Oh, that’s bad,” I say, shoving my computer into my tote like it’s on fire. “Thank you both for the heads-up. I should probably take care of this.” With words. And damage control. And possibly a bribe.

Delilah hands me another napkin like it might help.

“I mean, media storms are technically my forte,” I ramble, slinging the bag over my shoulder. “But I also like to avoid them when they involve NHL royalty.”

Jeneva snorts into her coffee. “Too late for that, sugar.” She slaps the Sully’s Beach Sentinel across my table. “You haven’t seen this morning’s paper?”

Right there, across the top is the headline: Hockey Player Insults Commissioner’s Wife.