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Stellan

The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the game. We’ve just pulled off a win, but it feels like I’m skating on thin ice. The fans are cheering, the team is celebrating, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s about to go wrong.

As I pull off my helmet and wipe the sweat from my face, I spot Coach Xander Phillips motioning for me to come over. My heart skips a beat, and I curse under my breath. Something’s off. He’s got that look on his face—the one that makes me feel like I’m about to get chewed out.

“Stephenson, over here!” Coach calls, his voice booming through the locker room.

I head over, trying to mask the sinking feeling in my stomach. My teammates are all buzzing around me, still hyped from the win, but I can’t focus on their chatter. Not now. Something’s coming down the pipeline, and it isn’t good.

Alaric “Iceman” Torvalds is sitting on the bench, throwing ice packs at Zyon, the winger, who’s trying to dodge them with some half-assed moves.

“You’re slow as hell, man,” Zyon says, chuckling, as he misses another ice pack aimed at his head.

“Shut up, I’ve been carrying your ass all season,” Iceman fires back, his grin wide.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, big guy,” Zyon says, rolling his eyes as he snatches the ice pack mid-air and tosses it back at Iceman.

The banter between the two is the usual after a win, but I’m not in the mood to join in. I head toward Coach’s office, the last place I want to be right now.

Coach Phillips is standing near the door, holding a folder with papers I don’t even want to look at. His jaw is clenched, and I can see the veins in his neck pulsing—he’s pissed. This can’t be good.

“Take a seat, Stephenson,” Coach grunts, pulling out a chair for me.

I sit down, doing my best to look relaxed, even though my insides are in knots. He slides the folder across the table. I don’t want to open it. I already know what’s inside.

“Take a look,” Coach says, his tone sharp. “It’s from Oliver Green. He’s not happy with you.”

I glance down at the papers. There’s a photo from last night’s party—me, draped in a blonde’s arms, looking like I’ve had one too many shots. There’s another one from two nights ago, me leaving a club at three in the morning with someone else. My reputation’s taking a hit, and I know it.

I lean back in the chair, trying to keep my cool. “Yeah, I’ve had my share of fun, but I’m playing well, right?”

Coach sighs, rubbing his forehead. “That’s not the point, Stellan. Oliver Green doesn’t want his players acting like a bunch of frat boys. He’s concerned about the image you’re putting out there. His PR team is freaking out. And you’re right in the middle of it.”

I let out a frustrated breath. “So what, you want me to stop living my life? I’m just having a little fun. The game’s my priority.”

Coach shakes his head. “The game’s your priority, sure. But your off-ice behavior affects the team. It affects the brand. Green’s got a point. And I’m not gonna let you mess up the rest of the season for all of us.”

I lean forward, eyes narrowing. “What do you want me to do, Coach?”

Coach Phillips looks at me for a long moment, then says, “You need to clean up your act. And fast. Oliver’s got an idea, and it’s your ticket out of this mess.”

My stomach twists. "What kind of 'idea'?"

"You're going to fake date his daughter."

I blink. “Wait, what?”

Coach leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You heard me. You’re going to fake date Fiona Green. The PR team thinks it’ll make you look like a committed guy. Clean up your image, make it look like you’re more than just a wild party animal.”

I feel my jaw drop. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You want me to fake date the owner’s daughter? Fiona Green?”

“Exactly,” Coach says. “I’ll make the introductions, and you two will go through the motions. Hold hands at games, take a few photos together. Maybe even show up at a couple of her charity events. It’ll keep the media off your back and help your image. Green’s all in.”

“Wait, you’re serious?” I ask, disbelief all over my face.

Coach nods. “Oliver is serious. He’s not playing games with this. You do this, and you might just save your career.”

I’m still trying to wrap my head around this. Fiona Green—the perfect, untouchable daughter of the owner. There’s no way she’ll go for this. She’s got her own life, her own things going on. But what choice do I have? My career’s on the line.

“Alright,” I say, finally. “Let’s do it.”

Coach pats me on the shoulder. “Good. Now get changed. Green wants to meet with you, and so does the PR team. You’ve got a meeting set up with them in ten minutes.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Can’t wait.”

I stand up, still in a daze, and make my way back to the locker room. Zyon and Iceman are still at it, throwing jabs back and forth like they don’t have a care in the world.

“You good, Stellan?” Zyon asks, noticing the tension on my face.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Just need to go talk to the owner and the PR team.”

“Uh oh,” Iceman says, glancing over. “That’s never a good thing.”

“Tell me about it,” I mutter, grabbing my bag and heading toward the showers.

After a quick rinse, I get dressed and head to the office. The PR team’s already there, all suited up in their crisp, professional attire. Oliver Green’s sitting at the head of the table, his expression cold, like he’s already decided my fate. Fiona’s not in the room, and for a second, I wonder if she even knows what’s going on.

“Stephenson,” Green says, nodding at me. “I trust you’re aware of the mess you’ve made.”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice tight. “I know.”

“Good,” Green says, crossing his arms. “I’ve had enough of this circus. I don’t care if you’re some big star on the ice. You’re dragging this team’s image down. I need you to straighten up.”

The PR team slides a few pictures in front of me—shots from the past few weeks of my wild nights out. The kind of stuff that can ruin a player’s career.

“I need a solution,” Green says. “And I’ve got one for you. You’ll start dating Fiona. Officially. I don’t care how you make it work, but it’s got to happen. Keep it clean. Hold her hand in public, go to events with her, and make the media believe you’re more than just a party boy.”

I stare at the pictures in front of me. Dating Fiona Green—wow. This is nuts. But I’m not in a position to turn it down.

“I’m in,” I say, swallowing my nerves.

Green leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Good. You’ll meet Fiona tomorrow. We’ll get the PR ball rolling, and your image will be clean. Just don’t mess this up.”

I nod, but inside, I’m freaking out. This is crazy. But if it means saving my career, I’ll do it.

As I leave the meeting, I can’t help but wonder what Fiona will think of this.