Page 1 of Blitz
ONE
Cole Patrick Harrington III AKA “Trick”
I’d been calleda lot of things in my career—cocky, cold, un-coachable—but this was a new one: Kid.
“Jesus,kid!”
“Smile more,kid.”
“You look like someone pissed in your Wheaties,kid.”
The man with the camera was talking to me as if I were some fresh-faced rookie and not a twenty-five-year-old professional who’d survived two concussions, a torn MCL, and had cultivated a reputation so toxic even my agent flinched when my name came up. Any minute now, I was going to launch this chirpy, caffeine-fueled photographer from the top floor of the Railers practice facility and act as if it was a training accident.
I gritted my teeth and resisted the urge to lose my shit, mostly because I’d been warned—again—that this PR stunt was a chance for me to play nice. Apparently, how I got myself traded from Atlanta had been way too effective. I may have overplayed my hand at my old team when I tried my hardest to make myself the bad guy to escape the specters that loomed large in Georgia. The Railers had scooped me up like a clearance-sale gamble, hoping maybe a change of scenery would fix whatever was wrongwith me—as if I was just some glitchy piece of tech needing a reboot. But instead of skating drills or hitting the weights to prove I still had game, I was stuck posing with a golden-boy football player in a sponsored shoot for BoltFuel—oiled up, half naked with shorts the only thing hiding skin, and gritting my teeth while trying not to explode at everyone in sight.
Worth it to get out of my dad’s way. Right?
“We are smiling,” Tom said beside me, his voice bright enough to make my teeth ache as he elbowed me with what I assumed was solidarity.
His default setting was probably grin-and-glow, the kind of guy who thought the world could be fixed with a good attitude and an extra scoop of protein powder. He wasn’t only smiling—he was radiating PR-friendly charm as if it was his job. And maybe it was. Meanwhile, I was trying not to set the BoltFuel banner on fire with my eyes.
“This way, Trip! Smolder for me, Trip! Love that protein drink, Trip!” the camera guy shouted.
“It’s Trick,” I corrected. Everyone wanted to call me Trip for the III, but no, I was ColePatrickHarrington, and people had better remember that it was Trick from Patrick.
My dad was Cole Harrington—Pastor Cole—slick with charm, polished by the spotlight of his Temple of the Radiant Truth ministry, and backed by generations of old Southern money.
“Trick, then. Smile!”
According to Layton Foxx, the Railers PR guru, sunshine-football-guy and I were good for BoltFuel, the team, and hell, even the league. I was surprised he didn’t tell me it would lead to world peace, but apparently, the optics were perfect: hockey’s most controversial problem child standing next to football’s favorite son. I gritted my teeth and forced my trademark golden-boy grin. This was good for image and cross-market promotion,and excellent for a company trying to prove their product wasn’t just for gym bros and weekend warriors.
BoltFuel’s directive had been front and center in the email thread leading up to this shoot—DON’T LET HARRINGTON FUCK IT UP FOR US.All caps. Bolded. Message received loud and clear. Be good, be agreeable, and sell the shake. Keep your attitude on a leash and your mouth shut. That was all they needed from me: a warm body and a winning smile.
The camera flashed, and I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms. I focused on my breathing, slow and controlled. One… two… three. My jaw ached from clenching, and my shoulders were so tight my head hurt. Ten seconds of pretending. Ten seconds of not messing up in front of BoltFuel, the team, and the one guy in the room who seemed untouched by the circus. Ten seconds of being someone I wasn’t—I could do that. Hell, I did it every day.
Tom I’m-fucking-perfect Fulkowski, carved out of golden light, good intentions, and twenty million a year, stood beside me as though he didn’t have a care in the world, flashing his perfectly white teeth and charming everyone from the interns to the assistant GM. He even smelled good, like sunshine and cinnamon. I smelled like sweat and frustration.
We both smelled of oil.
Taller than me by a couple of inches, he was broad-shouldered and stupidly photogenic. He wore his Philadelphia Pumas shorts as if he belonged in a magazine ad instead of a football stadium.
“Trick? A word,” Layton said from the sidelines, all pleasant PR charm until I got closer, and he pulled me aside like a cop about to read me my rights.
“What! I’m doing it! I’m smiling, aren’t I? I didn’t swear, flip anyone off, or smash a camera. That’s practically sainthood.”
God, it was hard to turn off the asshole side of me.
“I swear, Trick, if you don’t pull it together and act like you’re even vaguely enjoying yourself, I willpersonallystaple that BoltFuel logo to your forehead. This campaign is already hanging by a thread, and if you tank it, you’re not just screwing yourself—you’re screwing me, the team, and everyone who still thinks there’s a PR miracle waiting to happen here.”
Message received. Loud and clear. Again.
“Act like you’re happy we plucked you off the waiver wire. Smile, nod, and for the love of god, Trick, look like you’re thrilled to be standing next to America’s sweetheart and holding a protein shake like it’s your golden ticket back into hockey heaven.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, letting the PR-approved smile drop like dead weight. I didn’t want to be told what to do. I’d escaped Atlanta to be my own man, and here was this guy shouting at me.
“Even if I’m not happy?” My voice was flat; the kind of tone that said I was two seconds from lighting the whole BoltFuel banner on fire to see who’d scramble first.
Layton’s eyes darkened, and I could see the vein in his temple starting to throb. “I swear…” he began. “Do your job and pretend you want to be part of the Railers.” Then, he gently encouraged me, aka shoved me, back out onto the rooftop where Perfect-Tom-the-football player was chatting to the photographer and smiling so damn hard I was surprised his face didn’t break.
