Page 3

Ken

"They're trying to bait us. Don't bite."

I catch Oscar's warning a second too late—my shoulder slams into the boards from a dirty check, teeth rattling. The puck squirts free, and I recover fast, whipping it across the ice to Ashton, who's already skating like a devil toward the crease.

He passes back just in time. I slap it into the top corner of the net.

Horn. Roar. Another goal for the Dayton Devils. Our pro team is a feeder league for the NHL—scouts are always watching. Every goal could be the one that gets me called up.

Ashton barrels into me for our celebration, grinning like he's ten years old again. "That's how we do it!"

We're up 3-1 in the third, and the Kings are spiraling. Dirty hits, late checks, one of their defensemen just tried to decapitate Petrov. Tempers are boiling.

Next shift, I'm on edge. The Kings dump the puck and chase. I pivot hard, slash it across the ice to Ashton. He catches it, dodges two defenders, and returns it slick as hell just outside the crease. I tap it in .

My second tonight.

Oscar slaps my helmet as we skate off. "Hot hands, Branch. Dinner's on you."

Final buzzer sounds with a 4-1 finish.

"Branch and Carmichael strike again!" the announcer booms. "The dynamic duo does it one more time, folks!"

Locker room's a mix of sweat, noise, and victory buzz. Guys are hooting, towels snapping, gear clattering into bags. I'm toweling off when Ashton corners me, still half-dressed and cocky as hell.

"You remember how you said you owed me for helping you adjust to the team?"

I narrow my eyes. "Don't like where this is going."

"I'm calling it in."

I squint at him. "What do you want?"

"You to be my sister's date. Anniversary week, gala, schmoozing the board."

I blink. "Your sister?"

"She needs a plus-one. My dad's on her case about being 'unbalanced.' An asshole named Matthews is circling like a vulture and ass-kissing Dad to be CEO. This might help her keep her spot in the family—as it should be."

"And she's agreed to this?"

"She will."

"Right. Because what woman doesn't want a fake date she's never met? She also loves surprise dental work and tax audits?"

"She's brilliant. Head of R&D. Runs a lab. She just needs someone who won't embarrass her or try to sleep with her."

"And you thought of me because?"

"Because you've got a brain. Quiet, observant. Ivy League."

"I didn't go to an Ivy League college."

"Whatever. You clean up nice. You know when to shut up in a room full of billionaires. And you're not gonna try anything."

I raise a brow. "You mean you trust me not to hump your sister."

"Exactly. I've seen you with women. You've got standards, but more importantly, you've got restraint. And if you step one toe out of line—I can still kill you."

"Wow. I feel so honored."

He claps me on the shoulder like it's settled. "Tux fitting's Tuesday. I'll send you the schedule."

He walks off like the whole damn thing is a done deal.

The locker room empties, music off. Quiet.

"Drink?" Oscar asks from behind me. "Right now you look like you could use one."

“Always do.”

“Exactly.”

Twenty minutes later, we're at Murphy's. It's our usual spot—dark wood, sticky floors, zero chance of running into the type of women who want to date hockey players.

"He wants you to what?" Oscar chokes on his beer.

"Play boyfriend to his sister. Some corporate princess who needs arm candy for daddy's company events. "

"And you said yes?"

"I didn't say anything. He just... decided."

"Since when do you do favors for rich people?" Oscar signals the bartender for another round. "Remember that charity gala last month? You said you'd rather clean sewers again than spend another night watching trust fund babies pretend to care about the poor."

"I did clean sewers. Summer before junior year."

Oscar starts counting on his fingers. “Sewers, roadkill cleanup—”

He doesn’t know half of it. Doesn’t know about the semester I spent pole dancing. Letting drunk rich women stuff bills in my waistband while I gritted my teeth and faked confidence. Humiliating—but I needed the cash. Now? I’ve got a real salary. My own place. My name stitched across a pro jersey.

But I haven’t forgotten where I came from. Or how I feel about people who think wealth equals worth.

My teammates will never know.

“Don’t forget night security at the morgue.”

"Man, your scholarship really didn't cover shit, did it?"

"Not even books. But it wasn’t that bad. Nothing says 'good morning' like scraping raccoon pancakes off Route 9 at 3 AM while hungover. Puts things in perspective when even the roadkill looks better than you."

"And the morgue?"

"Quietest co-workers I ever had. Great listeners. Plus free air conditioning in summer."

“Jesus, Branch. You didn’t survive college. You fucking clawed through it.”

"Not everyone's daddy bought them new skates every season." I take a long pull from my beer. "But that's exactly why I shouldn't do this. I don't belong in their world. And I already know how it feels to be the entertainment. "

"Their world?"

"Rich people who've never had to choose between buying textbooks or eating that week."

"Ashton's not like that."

"Ashton's different. But his sister? Probably thinks grit is something you exfoliate with."