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THREE

Tate

When she strides into the ice rink during morning practice, she’s got trouble written all over her face—and it’s aimed straight at me.

But there’s something almost endearing about the way her forehead scrunches when she’s on a mission, the little furrow I’ve come to recognize as her “ what am I going to do with you, Tate? ” expression.

Was it the email where I sent a pie chart comparing our social media engagement before and after her “fun captions”? Or maybe it was the time when I submitted feedback on her marketing survey and added the comment, “I’d rather take a puck to the face.”

Lauren Williamson looks every inch the relentless PR professional, with her brown hair pulled back into a slick ponytail and a mouth that could either obliterate your career or make your whole day with just one smile.

She’s beautiful. Who else could get away with calling me an “uncooperative gorilla” over email and make it somehow seem weirdly flattering?

And now she’s glaring at me like I personally offended her—and I don’t even know why.

“What’s up, Lauren?” Rourke asks as he skates over to her with a grin. “Here to take my picture? I can take my shirt off, if you want.”

Of course he’d offer to strip for a photo. Rourke’s a walking flirt with a hockey stick.

“No, thank you,” she replies, ignoring him. “Stick around for a group shoot after practice. Staged photos. Shirts—and everything else—stay on.”

A few of the guys groan.

I pretend not to hear because Lauren already knows how I feel about pictures.

“Tate,” she says, locking her gaze on me. “I need to talk to you.”

I do a lazy pivot and skate back toward her. “Is this about me skipping the last shoot? Because I’m still waiting on that gorilla suit. Felt like a missed branding opportunity.”

“No,” she says, folding her arms. “This is about your talent for making the front page of the newspaper.”

I coast to a stop near the boards. “I swear I haven’t corrected anyone’s grammar since…the last incident.”

“So you haven’t checked the news today? Or been interviewed by any journalists recently?”

I pause, tapping my stick against the ice. “Oh, yeah, there was that voicemail from the Sully’s Beach Sentinel , but I never called them back.”

Her jaw drops. “Tate! When you get a call like that, you’re supposed to notify me immediately for a press statement.”

I shrug. “I didn’t think it was important.”

“He lives in a fantasy world with elves and fairies,” Leo says under his breath as he skates by, whacking my arm with his stick. “Wouldn’t notice if the arena caught fire mid-practice.”

“That’s not true,” I protest. “I read The Wall Street Journal every morning.”

“Well, The Wall Street Journal won’t help you with this,” Lauren says, whipping out her phone. She taps the screen and holds it up, showing me the local news. “Apparently, you insulted the NHL commissioner’s wife at the gala.”

I squint at the tiny words on her phone. “Who? ”

She stares at me. “The cat lady, Tate.”

“Oh. That one.” I pause. “She tried to climb my leg. The cat, not the lady.”

“I know that,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose like I’m her worst PR nightmare.

I already know Lauren’s probably three steps ahead, mapping out damage control scenarios.

She’s saved half the team from their own idiotic statements at one point or another, including me, more times than I’d care to admit. It’s impressive, really.

She drops her hand and tilts her head. “What I don’t know is why you didn’t tell me about it.”

“Didn’t think it involved you.”

“You told her that cats shouldn’t be allowed out in public if they couldn’t keep their paws to themselves.”

“In my defense,” I say, leaning on my stick, “that cat molested me.”

Lauren sighs. “And you used the word molested… in front of the commissioner’s wife?”

“I didn’t know she was the commissioner’s wife!”

She closes her eyes, inhaling deeply like she’s praying for patience.

For a split second, her professional mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of genuine worry beneath the frustration.

It’s not just about the PR disaster—she actually cares what happens to me.

The realization is both surprising and strangely comforting.

“Tate, you can’t just offend someone, ignore the press, and hope it disappears.”

I shrug. “Worked fine for the cat.”

I reach for her phone to skim the article but she yanks it away. “Let me guess,” I say. “She had some very pleasant things to say about me.”

“Pleasant isn’t the word I’d use,” Lauren says. “She took her story to the local newspaper, and now you’re the bad guy.”

She begins reading :

“At the Sully’s Beach Hockey Gala last weekend, local defenseman Tate Foster made more than a few waves, most notably with his offhand remark about recent league changes, which he attributed to the commissioner’s wife, whom he failed to realize was in attendance at the event.

He then went on to demand her pet’s removal from the premises.

Sources close to the commissioner’s wife said she was ‘shaken but not surprised by the interaction,’ citing Foster’s ‘general disdain for publicity.’ Foster would not respond to our request for a comment. ”

“Can’t we just let it blow over?” I tug off my gloves. “Issue an apology and call it a day?”

“I wish it were that simple. But unfortunately, she thinks you hate cats. Now animal lovers are canceling you.”

“It’s not my fault I’m allergic to cats!” I shoot back. “And it wasn’t personal. Her Persian was trying to scale me like I was her personal catnip tree.”

Lauren’s lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m just imagining…never mind.” Lauren shakes her head, evidently trying to erase the image of me in formalwear being scaled by a Persian.

She clears her throat, boxing up her amusement.

“Regardless, she didn’t know you were allergic.

And now you’re making front page news for all the wrong reasons. ”

“Ooooo, Tate’s in trouble,” Rourke singsongs behind me.

“Shut up, Rourke,” I murmur, stepping off the ice.

Lauren glances back at the team before looking at me. “Can we talk in my office? Somewhere less public?”

“Sorry, but I have to decline your invitation. I’m kind of busy right now.”

Lauren crosses her arms. “Sheriff, I’m not sure you understand. If we don’t fix this fast, your entire career might be on the line.”

I blink. “Over one cat?”

“Over how you handled everything.” She spins on her heel and heads for the elevator, heels clicking like a countdown timer.

I stare after her, yanking off my skates and gear, and race after her in my socked feet, not wasting time on shoes. “So, what? You’re going to force me to pose for some ridiculous pictures?”

She doesn’t turn around, just punches the elevator button and says over her shoulder, “Nope. I’m going to save your career. And unfortunately for you, that starts right now.”

The way she emphasizes those last two words makes it clear—there’s no practice, no shower, no room for excuses.

She’s a hurricane. A force of nature. Beautiful, but dangerous. And I’m standing directly in her path.