Page 67 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Presenting what?”

“The team’s commitment to mental health. Your programs. Success stories.” He slides a folder across the desk. “Talking points are prepared. Memorize them.”

I flip through the pages, seeing carefully crafted PR speak about breakthrough therapies and player development. Nothing real. Nothing true.

“This mentions Hendrix’s improvement,” I note. “His successful reintegration.”

“He’s our most visible player. His progress reflects well on the program.”

“The player I just transferred due to conflicts?”

“The media doesn’t need to know that.” He leans back. “You’ll present him as a success story. Proof that our methods work.”

“But—”

“This isn’t a discussion, Chelsea. The team needs positive press. You’ll provide it.”

“By lying?”

“By focusing on results. His play has improved. His penalty minutes are down. That’s all that matters.”

“What about the fight with Stevens?”

“Training intensity. Already handled.” He stands, conversation clearly over. “Thursday. 2 PM. Wear the blue suit—it photographs well.”

I leave his office feeling dirty. He wants me to parade Reed’s “improvement” while hiding that I can’t even be in the same room with him. Wants me to lie to protect the image we’re all killing ourselves to maintain.

Back in my office, I find Maddy waiting with coffee and a concerned expression.

“That bad?”

“Press event Thursday. I’m supposed to present Reed as a success story.”

“Awkward.”

“It’s fine. I’ll lie. I’ve gotten good at it.” I accept the coffee gratefully. “Lying to my father, to Jake, to myself...”

“Speaking of lies and press.” Maddy’s expression shifts to what I call her crisis mode. “There’s something you should know. Rumors are starting.”

“Rumors?”

“About you and Hendrix. Nothing concrete yet, just whispers. But...” She pauses. “I’ve heard from contacts that someone might have photos.”

My blood freezes. “Photos of what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe the gala—I thought I killed those, but perhaps I missed one. Maybe something else. But Chelsea, if there are photos...”

Equipment shed. Laundry room. The parking lot. Any number of moments where we forgot to be careful.

“What do I do?”

“Deny everything. No matter what surfaces, you deny. And maybe...” She hesitates. “Maybe give them something else to talk about.”

“Like what?”

“Like a very public date with Jake. Show them you’re involved with someone appropriate. Control the narrative before it controls you.”

She leaves me with that suggestion and the weight of impending disaster. I sit at my desk, staring at my phone, knowing what I should do. Call Jake. Arrange dinner. Create a cover story for whatever’s about to explode.

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