Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
But I’m the one card he can’t fold because I’m his shot.
Or as he once said to me, “Grizz… you’re my necessary evil.”
So I just swipe at my fat lip, watching him stew in his expensive shoes.
I’ve already won tonight. On the scoreboard. On the ice. And in the part no one ever admits matters most—control.
Langley heads my way and I brace for his anger. When he’s standing before me, he says, “Great game, Grizz.”
It catches me off guard. “Thanks,” I say.
“Game misconduct notwithstanding.”
I hold my tongue, knowing that now isn’t the time or the place to argue my side of things.
Langley checks his watch. “I’m headed to the airport for meetings in Los Angeles. When I get back, we’re going to talk.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply, instead pivoting and walking out of the locker room.
Smart man. He knows better than to start shit in front of half a dozen beat reporters and a locker room full of guys who all saw the scoreboard.
I’m sure he’ll call me into his office when he returns and hand out a fine that will sting just a little. Whoop-de-do.
And then I’ll lace up my skates next game and do it all over again because Langley and the Vipers aren’t winning a championship without me.
Chapter 2
Daisy
I’m seated in the fourth row of the Giancarlo show during New York Fashion Week, though technically it’s the fifth, thanks to an influencer in front of me who decided her visibility was more important than spatial reality. She’s standing in four-inch heels, craning her neck as if waiting to be discovered. Everyone pretends either not to notice or not to be bothered by the spectacle.
Around me plays a symphony of subtle mayhem. Heels click like metronomes on the marble floor. Champagne glasses clink softly in the background. Someone’s perfume—floral and aggressively fragrant—is already burrowing into my sinuses.
The lights dim, music pulses, and the crowd leans in like they’re witnessing the second coming of Yves Saint Laurent. I sit back and watch as the show begins.
Yes, I take in the gowns and models as a whole, but it’s the seams that really interest me.
One dress is slightly off balance, the left hem trailing a half-inch lower than the right, and I make a note. The model stumbles—not enough to cause a scene, just enough to prove she’s human. I jot that down too. The press girl shifts uncomfortably, side-eyeing me.
These are the big fashion shows I’m supposed to romanticize. The shimmer and the over-the-top glamour. The fantasy of it all. But I didn’t come here to perpetuate unrealistic dreams. I came for the truth buried under the tulle.
People at these shows always assume I hate fashion because I ask uncomfortable questions and don’t wear five visible brand logos. Therefore, I must secretly despise the industry.
They couldn’t be more wrong.
I love fashion. I love the real stuff that starts with a sketch in the margins of a notebook and ends up reshaping how people see the world. I love the revolutionaries, the ones who make clothes with vision and spin: Alexander McQueen. Rei Kawakubo. Phoebe Philo. Designers who didn’t just follow trends but cracked them wide open.
I love the craftsmanship—the math of a bias cut, the precision of hand-sewn pleats. How a perfectly tailored jacket feels. I believe fashion can be art. I mean, it should be art.
And that’s why I’m here, covering the premier fashion shows as a contributor for Contour, the nation’s top fashion magazine. I’m living my dream, or at least on my way to it. This is the New York City I dreamt about as a kid and look at me now. I’ve turned that dream into a reality, surrounded by the designers I grew up idolizing, revering, and, of course, wearing.
But lately, it’s getting harder to tell the difference between an aesthetic and a strategy. Too many new designers seem more interested in clout than creation. They’re designing for algorithms, not silhouettes. They make collections built around how well a piece will photograph under LED lighting, not how it will move on a human body. And God forbid you ask what materials they’re using or who’s making them.
These new-age designers talk about sustainability while flying on a private jet. That’s the part I can’t stomach. Give me drama any day of the week, but don’t sell me manufactured virtue and call it integrity. Don’t strip the soul out of something beautiful and pretend it’s progress.
I don’t hate fashion. I hate what some people do to it.
And maybe that’s why I keep asking the hard questions.
At the end of the show, Giancarlo practically glows as he submits himself for questions. Tan, polished, immaculately indifferent, he’s an icon who can step over a protester on his way to brunch and still call himself “mindful.” His team fans out beside him, all angles and whispered directives.