Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
I’d turn this off if I could, but this is part of my job, studying the raw material, because while the social media aspect tells a story, it doesn’t include all sides. I move to my other eye, swiping the black mascara while blinking and pulling it up. The video feed pauses on a high-resolution full-body shot from a recent team media day at the Lonestars facility.
“Damn.” The image fills the entire screen, and I freeze. He was caught walking through the arena tunnel, completely candid, and even through a screen, the man is undeniably good-looking. Tall, massive shoulders, and built with the lean powerful shape of a man who takes care of himself. My eyes scan the monitor, taking in the details like a marketer assessing a product or a woman assessing a threat. Thick, dark hair falls in an effortless flow of waves around a face carved from sharp angles. A strong jawline that looks like it’s built to take a hit, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a dusting of stubble that only makes him look more rugged. He’s objectively devastatingly handsome, but his eyes are the real threat: dark, steady, and intensely focused, they seem to take in everything through the lens of the camera without giving a single thing away.
Even dressed down, there’s something undeniably commanding about him that a filter couldn’t fake. A fitted navy-short sleeve polo stretches tightly across his chest, buttons left open at the throat to reveal just enough skin to make a woman wonder what’s beneath. His khaki slacks sit low on his hips, emphasizing his long legs and athletic build. He’s a content creator’s and a public relations manager’s worst nightmare.
I can see the immediate appeal—raw, unchecked intensity is pure clickbait. I’ve spent my entire life around men as good-looking as him, and even more so with my career. And one thing is certain, my boundary line clear: I never, ever mix business with pleasure. And Rowdy Bouchard is a high-stakes, career-defining deal that can take me to the next level.
“So, what’s the next step? Getting cleared by the league?” The interview audio continues to play in the background.
“Yeah. Cleared, then get back on the ice. I’m here to play hockey, not answer questions.” I reach out and slam the laptop lid shut, cutting off his voice.
“Well, you’re going to need more than a physical therapist and a miracle to fix your image before opening night, Bouch,” I say to my reflection, giving myself one last look. My eyeliner is smudged, giving me more of a smokey than wing-tipped effect thanks to my unsteady hand. My short dark hair is tousled, framing my face just right. The layered gold chains sit flat against my white top, and I toss my black leather jacket over my shoulders to finish the outfit. I look like a woman going to battle. All I need to do is somehow fix the narrative and do it fast.
I grab my phone and open the calendar app. My face-to-face meeting with the Lonestars’ favorite bad boy is scheduled at the training facility a week from now. This isn’t a disaster I can fix from behind the screen. It’s going to take a solid game plan, and in order to do that, I need to head to my meeting with his coach first.
Rowdy Bouchard is about to learn that he isn’t the only one who knows how to control a crowd. And I’m only getting started.
ONE
ROWDY
Being called into your boss’ office is a lot like dealing with the principal in grade school: nothing good ever fucking comes from it. The leather chair I’m sitting in creaks as I shift my weight, trying to find a position that doesn’t aggravate my shoulder after a grueling morning at physical therapy. The room smells like stale coffee, expensive mahogany, and cigars. An inevitable headache is starting to brew behind my eyes.
“Say that again,” I say, shaking my head. “Because it sounds like you’re telling me how to run my life, and I know I didn’t hear that right.” Mitch, the coach of the Houston Lonestars, doesn’t even flinch. He sits back in his executive chair, crossing his arms over his chest, and I can already hear him starting in on me now. He’s dealt with hockey players like me for twenty years and treated me like the rest of them: a weapon needed to be pointed in the right direction, not reasoned with.
“You heard me just fine, Bouch,” Mitch says evenly. “We’ve hired a social media manager and content creator. Her job is to follow you around, handle your public-facing account, and fix the train wreck you’ve made of your image over the last six months.” He doesn’t change his statement from the first, but that doesn’t mean I have to like what I’m hearing. So, I had surgery, took time off, partied probably more than I should have. That doesn’t mean I’m harming anyone.