Page 192 of Pucking Around

She nods. “Yeah…good clean fun.”

I don’t need to offer up a single detail of how Caleb and I actually paid for that good clean fun. I’m wearing long sleeves to work today because of the marks on my wrists. And my poor pussy still has her own heartbeat. So fucking worth it.

I take a deep breath. This isn’t unmanageable. There was no kissing, no sex tape, no secret footage from last night floating on the dark web. If anything, maybe it’s good it happened this way to start. If the rumors are given a little air, a little room to germinate and grow…

I glance back at Poppy, furiously focused on her phone as her thumbs tap tap tap away. “What can I do to help?”

“Hmm?” She doesn’t look up.

She’s quiet for another minute and I clear my throat. “Pop?”

“Yeah—what?” She looks up at last.

“How can I help? My family has PR people too.” I take a breath, hating that the words are about to slip from my lips. “I could…talk to my dad.”

I’ve tried so hard to rehab my image on my own. Old Rachel is gone. I left her in California along with my Jimmy Choo collection. I’m not that partying celebrity girl anymore. I’m a sports medicine doctor. A highly educated, professional woman.

With three boyfriends…on the same NHL team.

And I think two of my boyfriends might be boyfriends.

And my other boyfriend wants to play in the Olympics. As in, he’sactivelybeing recruited for a coveted spot on a National Olympic Team. Now. This weekend. Scouts are here to watch him play again tomorrow.

And here I thought it would be cute to play a game of jersey-switch in front of the cameras.

Yeah, this is a PR disaster waiting to happen. I will not apologize to anyone for loving three men, but I am in so far over my head. And I’m breaking the cardinal rule of the Price Family. I’m flying solo. I have been for months. We’ve learned through hard experience that the only way we survive is together.

I love my boys, but they’re not Prices. They have their own names to protect, their own families, their own reputations. My protective instincts flare as I think of the press hounding them the way they’ve hounded my family. The salacious stories, paparazzi outside my house day and night, going through my trash. The barrage of personal questions that constantly overshadow all attempts to promote your work, your art, your career.

Just the thought of their lives being inconvenienced in any way makes me see red. I want to take every gossip paper and burn it to ash. I want us all to hide out in Jake’s beach house for the rest of our days, four little turtles in our sandy shell.

It hurts because I woke up feeling so hopeful. Now, watching as Poppy St. James goes into PR crisis mode, the truth is glaringly obvious: there was never any hope that this would ever be anything but bad.Reallybad. Apocalyptic bad.

Jake and Ilmari will be reduced from star NHL player status to benched oddities. The Rays owners won’t want the constant bad press they bring to every game, every interview. They’ll get traded to different teams. That’ll be step one, as their agents and the League attempt to cool the heat of the press. They’re still great players. Someone will want them enough to scoop them up. Ilmari will end up in Winnipeg or back with the Liiga while Jake gets transferred out to Texas.

Then the PR rehab will really begin. They’ll fly under the radar, go on coordinated dates so they’re photographed with nice women, uncomplicated women. Women who aren’t me. My heart breaks at the thought.

And I can’t even begin to think what will happen to Caleb as they rehab Jake’s image away from him too. The ‘just friends’ bullshit parade will march boldly across every corner of the hockey internet. Because a man can’t possibly be a damn fine defenseman, checking players into the boards every day, only to go home to another man at night. Jake’s agent will give him a doomed offer: our salacious relationship, or his starting position.

Ilmari will be just the same: your lover and her lovers, or the Olympics. Choose.

“Rach? You okay, hon?”

I glance up to see Poppy looking at me, her head tipped to the side in quiet curiosity. I shake my head. “No. I’m not okay.”

She steps forward, putting an arm around my shoulder. “Oh, honey, it’s okay. This is no big deal. I know I came in all gloom and doom. You can just call me Lil Miss Storm Cloud,” she teases with a laugh. “I get in my head and go deep into ‘manage it’ mode. I’m sure you get it.”

“Yeah, I do,” I murmur. I really do. If she’s the queen of managing crises, I’m the empress, the goddess, the all-powerful genie. I’m going to manage the shit of out of this situation, protecting my guys at all costs. I don’t care if I take the fall. I’m not dragging them down with me.

“You leave this with me,” Poppy soothes. “Nothing a lil polish can’t make shine.”

“You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do?” I say, still going through the motions with her. I need her to leave. I can’t breathe until she leaves. Can’t scream. Can’t cry.

“Just do your job, Doc,” she replies with a smile. “You leave the PR to me and Clairy B.”

She leaves, letting the pulsing beat of the gym music filter inside this small room, thumping in my chest. In this moment, my office has never felt smaller. I look around the four white walls, devoid of decoration save for a pair of health inspection certificates in cheap gold frames. I feel a panic attack coming on. Shit, I haven’t had one of these in years. My breath is short and tight in my chest. I need help. I need to lift this crushing weight off my chest before I pass out. I needhim.

Raising a fluttering hand to my chest, I open my phone and tap my contacts. It’s far too early, but I don’t care. Finding his name, I hold my phone to my ear and wait, the call ringing. On the third ring, he answers.