Page 4 of The Hockey Contract

Under the scalding spray, I replayed the meeting with my agent Leo and endorsement manager Olivia from earlier that day. The memory made my jaw clench.

"Perfect Home Furnishings is looking for someone more family-oriented," Olivia had explained delicately, sliding a folder across the table.

"What the hell does that mean?" I'd demanded, not touching the folder.

Leo, who'd been my friend since college before becoming my agent, had sighed. "It means they're concerned about your public image, Jax. The Ice-Cold reputation works great on the rink, but for selling couches and dining sets? Not so much."

"They're worried about the tabloid stories," Olivia had added. "The string of models, the club appearances—"

"Half of which aren't even true," I'd interrupted. "I haven't been to a club in days. And I'm not dating anyone right now, model or otherwise."

"It doesn't matter what's true," Leo had said gently. "It's about perception. And right now, the perception is that you're not exactly the poster boy for home and hearth."

I'd leaned back in my chair, frustration building. "So what, they want me to pretend I'm something I'm not?"

"They want someone who embodies family values for their rebrand," Olivia had explained.

"This could be your biggest endorsement deal ever, Jax," Leo had added. "Seven figures, minimum. But they're making the final decision in three months, and honestly, that's not enough time for a complete image overhaul."

I shut off the shower with more force than necessary, the conversation still burning in my mind. Perfect Home Furnishings was the kind of mainstream endorsement that could set me up for life after hockey. And with a knee that complained more each season, I needed to think about the future.

Wrapping a towel around my waist, I padded into my bedroom and checked my phone. Three missed calls from my parents and a text from my younger brother:

Saw the video. Never thought I'd see the day when The Ice Man got taken down by a cute baker. Call Mom, she's freaking out.

Great. Even my family had seen the viral disaster.

I returned my mother's call first, enduring ten minutes of concern about my public behavior and reminders that I represented not just myself but the whole Harrison family. My father got on the line briefly to ask if the incident would affect my playing time. Classic Dad, always focused on the game.

By the time I arrived at team practice the next morning, I was already in a foul mood. Which only worsened when I stepped into the locker room to find the video playing on someone's phone.

"There he is," Anders, our goalie, called out with a grin. "Seattle's most famous coffee catastrophe."

Captain Finn clapped me on the shoulder. "Rough morning yesterday, Harrison? Did the mean baker lady hurt your feelings?"

I shoved his hand away. "Shut up and get dressed. Some of us take practice seriously."

"Ouch," Finn said, clutching his chest in mock pain. "Still icy, I see. That poor baker probably has frostbite."

The team erupted in laughter, and I focused on gearing up, ignoring their continued jabs. By the time we hit the ice, I was fueled by enough irritation to make my checks particularly brutal.

Coach Miller blew his whistle after I'd sent rookie defenseman Reynolds sliding across the ice for the third time. "Jax, this is practice, not the playoffs. Dial it back."

I nodded curtly, skating to the bench for water.

Coach followed me over. "Look, I get that you're fired up, and I like the intensity, but save it for the game tomorrow." He lowered his voice. "And while we're at it, watch yourself off the ice. PR called this morning about that video. The last thing we need is negative press heading into the playoffs."

"It was nothing," I muttered. "Just a minor misunderstanding."

"Keep it that way," Coach said firmly before addressing the whole team. "Alright, listen up. We've got six weeks until playoffs, and every single one of you needs to be in top form, on and off the ice. That means taking care of your bodies, staying out of trouble, and maintaining professional behavior at all times." His gaze lingered on me. "No exceptions."

After practice, I was unlacing my skates when Finn dropped onto the bench beside me.

"Rough session," he commented, studying my face. "Want to grab lunch and talk about what's actually bothering you? Because I'm pretty sure it's not just a spilled coffee."

I hesitated. Finn was my captain but also the closest thing I had to a friend on the team. "Fine," I agreed. "But not the usual place." The last thing I needed was more fan encounters.

Thirty minutes later, we were seated in a quiet corner of an upscale steakhouse, menus in hand.

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