Page 4

FOUR

Tate

Save my career? Like she can just waltz in, wave her PR wand, and make it all go away?

Yeah. Except the annoying part is, she probably can.

I’ve watched her transform Leo’s on-ice blowup into a “heartwarming story” that ended with him eventually winning over a figure skater, and somehow spinning Rourke’s bad decisions into a tale of a misunderstood hero.

The woman could probably convince people I’m secretly a cat lover if she put her mind to it.

“You know I volunteer at the humane center shelter,” I say in my defense. “Every week. I’m being canceled for hating animals , meanwhile I spent Saturday washing a dog the size of a pony.”

She turns toward me. “Unfortunately, the internet doesn’t know that. If this hits national coverage or goes viral, it won’t just hurt your reputation—it’ll hurt the team.”

I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my jaw. “This is the part I hate. I’m not a bad guy. I just don’t want to pretend to be someone I’m not.”

“I know,” she says, her voice losing its edge, like she cares how this might affect my future. “But in the NHL? Your reputation matters. Rafael Marco said a few teams have been watching you, but they haven’t made a move—because you’re not… ”

“Willing to play the game,” I finish as the elevator dings, my pulse ramping up at the sound.

“Exactly. And I’m going to help you fix it.”

“So what does this involve?” I ask, already dreading the answer. “Can I just meet with her and smooth things over? Maybe give her cat a can of Fancy Feast and a new sparkly bell collar?”

Lauren gives me a look. “That might work for her, but it won’t fix your reputation with the fans. We need a full PR strategy, one that could take months.”

The doors slide open, and she steps inside, fully in game-plan mode. I hesitate. Every nerve in my body screams don’t get into the metal box.

I have a thing about elevators. Two floors or twenty—it doesn’t matter. I could take the stairs, but she’s already inside, waiting.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, noticing my hesitation.

“Nothing,” I grit out before stepping into the elevator.

“So, I’ve got a few ideas,” she says. “One option involves a photo shoot at the shelter, maybe a video with the adoptable animals—something that shows people who you really are.”

“I hate this already,” I grunt, rubbing the back of my neck. The elevator starts to move.

“We’re going to rebrand you as a delightful, big-hearted animal lover with a passion for community service and motorcycles,” she adds brightly. “Since the commissioner and his wife run that charity for widows who ride. Oh, and maybe we’ll throw in a rescued hedgehog.”

I stare at her. “You do realize I’m an introvert who doesn’t like people, attention, or death traps?”

Lauren waves me off. “We’ll just have you pose next to it. Maybe hold the hedgehog.”

I blink. “So now I’m starring in an animated movie with a rodent sidekick?”

“Exactly!” she chirps.

“This is utter misery for me. ”

“No, Tate,” she says with newfound optimism. “This is adorable .”

Suddenly, the elevator jolts to a grinding halt. I glance at the panel above the doors. The lighted numbers flicker, then die.

“Why did we stop?” I ask in a panicked voice. I step forward, pressing the button again. Nothing. So I jab it again. And again. Like maybe pushing it with more force will magically fix it.

“Relax,” Lauren says as she watches my button assault. “It’ll probably start up again in a second.”

Relax? Sure. Right after I stop picturing us plummeting to our doom. My heart jackhammers against my rib cage. This is my personal version of a horror movie—the one where the pretty girl and the idiot who’s afraid of elevators get trapped together, and only one of them makes it out alive.

Spoiler: It’s not usually the idiot.

“Are you okay?” Lauren asks, noticing the cold sweat on my forehead.

“Does it look like I’m okay?” I reply.

I hit the call button, and Leroy, the facility manager, answers. “This better not be Rourke again asking if I’ll order him a burrito.”

“No, this is Tate Foster,” I say, trying to keep the panic at bay. “The elevator’s stuck between floors.”

There’s a pause, then a chuckle. “Sheriff? You’re kidding me.” Then he starts laughing harder.

“This isn’t funny, Leroy. The elevator’s not moving.”

“I just can’t believe it’s you, of all people. The guy who hates elevators.”

Lauren turns to me, blinking. “You hate elevators? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Wasn’t sure you’d care after the cat incident.”

“Of course I care."

“I’ll see what I can do,” Leroy interrupts. “Hang tight. Maybe enjoy the pause?” Then he chuckles, like we’re supposed to be thrilled about being stuck together .

There’s a brief silence when I register the obvious: we’re alone. But this was not how I pictured ever being alone with Lauren Williamson.

“So, what do you want to do?” I ask, sliding down the wall and angling my face against the cool surface, hoping it will help take the edge off. “Discuss how you’re going to destroy my life with more PR plans?”

Lauren crosses her arms. “First off, I’m not ruining your life. I’m trying to save your reputation in the league. And secondly—” She pauses, her brow furrowing as she studies me. “Tate, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” I lie, closing my eyes. “Nothing like being stuck in an elevator on the worst day of your career.”

She crouches in front of me. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I don’t like small spaces. And elevators have multiple failure points.

Power loss, cable wear, faulty sensors. One wrong glitch and you’re stuck between floors for an undetermined length of time.

” I open my eyes and look at her, trying to stem the panic storm inside me.

“We could also plummet to the basement. Statistically rare. But also possible.”

She immediately drops to a seated position next to me, close enough that I catch the sweet tangerine scent of her perfume.

It wraps around me, grounding me more than anything else could right now.

Her face is gentle, with none of the sharp focus she wears during PR meetings. And that’s when I really see her.

Not that I haven’t noticed before, but I’ve never been this close. Close enough to see the flecks of amber in her brown eyes, the curve of her ruby lips, the way her dark lashes brush her cheeks when she blinks.

She’s so stunning, it disarms me completely. For a second, I forget we’re stuck in an elevator. Forget why she’s with me. Suddenly I’m jolted back into high school, nervously talking to a pretty girl who thinks I’m a nerd. But this isn’t high school. And Lauren isn’t that girl .

I squeeze my eyes shut because thinking of Lauren isn’t slowing down my heart. It’s making it worse.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “We’re going to breathe together. That’s all you have to do.”

I crack one eye open. “Did you learn that in your official PR training?”

“No,” she admits. “I learned it from watching my sister give birth. Unfortunately, I was the one hyperventilating.”

I chuckle.

“Hey,” she says. “You just laughed. That’s progress.”

I open my eyes. “You are way too optimistic for this situation.”

“It’s my coping mechanism. I can always find a positive spin for anything.” Her gaze holds mine for a second too long before she looks around the elevator. “So, what do you want to do? Play thumb wars? Tic-tac-toe?”

“We don’t have any paper or pens,” I remind her.

“Yeah,” she says, holding up her hands with a grin. “But we do have thumbs.”

“You’re aware mine would crush yours, right?” I show her my thumbs, easily double the size of hers.

She frowns like she’s actually calculating the odds of beating me. “Hmm. Definitely a disadvantage. It’d be like thumb-wrestling the Hulk.” Her vision drifts down to my feet and she does a double take. “Wait, are those dogs on your socks?”

“You didn’t give me time to put on my shoes.”

She sniggers. “I don’t know, Tate. This might be your most relatable look yet.”

I glance down at the socks in question—bright blue with little cartoon dogs wearing sunglasses. Not exactly hockey guy material.

“I bought them from a kid raising money for a rescue puppy,” I insist. “It was for a good cause.”

Her smile grows. “Sure. Totally just for the puppy.”

“And I happen to like fun novelty socks,” I add. “They bring balance to my otherwise serious life. ”

She tilts her head, intrigued. “That’s surprising. A sock enthusiast hiding behind a scowling defenseman.” She looks me over. “What else don’t I know about the mysterious Sheriff Foster? And when do I get to see this collection?”

“No chance I’m inviting you to poke fun at my socks.”

Her eyes dance with amusement. “Then I guess I’ll just have to raid your sock drawer the next time I visit Jaz.”

“Don’t even think about it,” I say, smirking. “I’d know instantly if something was out of place.”

“Oh, really?” she says, crossing her arms. “How?”

“They’re alphabetized…by color.”

She blinks. “You alphabetized your socks.”

I nod. “Does that change your opinion of me?”

She laughs. “Honestly, it just confirms my theory that there’s a whole side of you no one’s seen yet—and I kind of want to.”

The lights in the elevator blink, and I stiffen.

“You okay?” she whispers, reaching out. Her fingers brush my arm, and something zips beneath my skin.

I don’t answer right away. She moves closer, her eyes steady on mine—calm and way too beautiful for someone witnessing me like this.

“You didn’t have to distract me,” I say, even though she’s the only thing making me feel safe right now.

“I know,” she replies gently. “But I wanted to.”

She’s not just a distraction. She’s the distraction.

There’s a beat of silence before she pulls away.

“I could keep talking,” she offers, her tone lighter. “Quote a movie? I do a mean Sicilian from The Princess Bride. ”

“You know,” I say carefully, “I always thought you were just naturally upbeat. But you’re really just over-caffeinated, aren’t you?”

“I am heavily caffeinated. But also, stubbornly persistent.”

I tilt my head, considering. “I wouldn’t say stubborn.”

“No? ”

I shake my head. “More like…a lot of sunshine. Relentless, blinding sunshine.”

She looks at me playfully. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“From me? Absolutely.” I smirk. “Enjoy it, Sunny.”

She stares at me, stunned. “Did you just call me… Sunny ?”

“If the shoe fits…” I begin.

“Says the man not wearing any,” she deadpans. “You can’t call me Sunny in public.”

“Why not?”

“Because if the team hears it, I’ll never live it down. I’ll be Sunny for the rest of my life. Just like you’re Sheriff.”

“Welcome to the club.” I grin at her. “Nicknames mean you’re one of the team.”

“Well, Rourke doesn’t have a nickname.”

“Actually, he does,” I say. “It’s just classified.”

“Well, I’m not answering to Sunny,” she says, but I can see the smile she’s fighting. The one that tells me she likes to hear me call her that, even if no one else is allowed.

“And you think I want to be Sheriff? You know why they started that?”

“Because you’re a rule-follower who acts like fun is a crime?”

“Okay, yes to the rule-following,” I concede, then lean toward her. “For the record, I happen to be very fun. You just haven’t seen that side of me.”

She glances down at my feet. “Actually, I have. Nothing says ‘fun’ like a man in dog socks.”

I chuckle. “Sunny, this is just the beginning.”

She tilts her head. “Fine. You show me how fun you can be during this little PR makeover, and you can call me ‘Sunny’ all you want. Even in front of the team.”

I look at her dubiously. “This feels like a trap designed to force me into doing everything I despise.”

“Maybe,” she says sweetly. “But if you’re as fun as you claim, you’ve got nothing to worry about. ”

Just then, the elevator jolts to life with a shudder. I let out a breath, relieved to be moving again. “Finally.” I stand as the doors slide open.

“And just when we were starting to bond,” she says, following me.

“Is that what you call it? Forced bonding?” I say with a laugh.

“Well, I’ve never been stuck in an elevator with one of my players,” she says. “But you know this doesn’t get you out of your PR strategy.”

“Not if it involves a ridiculous photo shoot with a hedgehog.”

“Okay, the hedgehog is negotiable,” she says with a grin.

A message dings on my watch from Brax. Coach wants you on the ice ASAP.

“Sorry, Lauren,” I say, walking backwards down the hallway with surprising grace despite my socked feet. “Gotta bail on our meeting. Coach needs me. But this time, I’m taking the stairs.”

“But we haven’t discussed your PR plan yet,” she calls after me, heels clicking like she might actually chase me down.

I shoot her a grin, and her eyes slide to my dimples, causing her steps to falter just slightly.

“Sheriff, this isn’t over.”

“I’m counting on it, Sunny,” I reply, taking one last glimpse of her flustered smile before escaping down the steps.