“Come on,” I mutter, hands balled into fists as I watch Sully, Jonesy, and Karlsson skate down the ice, passing the puck. They had to reshuffle the forward lines with me missing, which means Jonesy is practicing with the starters this morning. He’s playing like a hotshot, making fancy stick moves and hogging the puck.
“Come on,” I say louder this time. “Just pass it, Jonesy!”
Sully is open and waiting, but Jonesy keeps it, trying a backhand flick that gets blocked by J-Lo. He bats the puck away and sends it down ice, leaving Jonesy scrambling to chase after it.
“Stop showboating and pass the damn puck,” I shout as he skates past me. This is the worst part about being injured: the watching. I launch to my feet, grabbing the top of the boards. “Pass it, Jonesy! For fuck’s sake—”
“Yoo-hoo, Ryan!”
I spin around, watching as Poppy St. James comes sauntering down the row of seats, her heels clicking as she walks. Does this woman ever not wear heels? She’s our public relations manager, but don’t let her Barbie looks fool you. She’s sharp as a tack and ruthless.
Her gloomy shadow Claribel walks in her wake. Poppy is loud and bright in a lavender pantsuit and blazer, while Claribel is a goth girl with dark eye makeup and dyed hair.
“Hi, Ryan,” Poppy chimes. “You got a minute?”
I stifle my groan. Whenever Poppy asks for a minute, she really means an hour. And if Claribel is involved, it means I’ll be doing something stupid like slapping a teammate in the face with a tortilla or answering questions about my favorite books and music.
It was one of her stupid viral TikToks that outed me as a Swiftie. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good nickname for a forward. But now the guys up in the sound booth are having too much fun with it. The last time I scored a goal, they played “22” as my goal song.
“What’s up, Poppy?” I say, giving Claribel a nod. She barely acknowledges me, her eyes on her phone.
Poppy flashes me a smile. “We’re looking for one more Ray to help us with this commercial spot, and you’re perfect. Come on.” She doesn’t even wait for my answer, she just spins around.
“Well—wait,” I call.
She glances back, one brow raised.
“I—well, I can’t leave,” I say, gesturing to the ice. “Coach wants me watching practice.”
“This will only take a few minutes. Now come on, handsome. The camera crew is waiting.”
Camera crew?
I groan audibly this time, following after her with a slight hitch in my step. I’m feeling my morning PT already. Doc says I’m doing great, and I’ll be back on the ice soon. Not soon enough for me.
“What are we doing?” I say as we clear the end of the bleachers and exit the rink.
“We’ve partnered with the Jacksonville Humane Society to shoot a pet adoption promo,” Poppy replies, leading the way through into the other smaller ice rink.
Mars, Davidson, and Coach Tomlin are out on the ice now. It looks like they’re finishing up. Mars already has his mask and gloves off, leaning against the boards as he watches Davidson scramble in the net. Tomlin is merciless, shooting pucks at him left, right, and center.
“Good,” Tomlin shouts. “Recover.”
At the other end of the rink, a Jax Rays media display has been set up on the ice. The cameras are ready, the crew just standing around.
“I found one,” Poppy calls with a wave, hurrying her steps.
I glance around at the scene. Novy and Morrow are on the ice in their street clothes. Morrow is beside himself, laughing like a kid as a tiny yellow puppy licks his chin.
“Nov, look,” he says. “Look, I think he likes me.”
Novy just glares at him. He’s holding something that looks like an alien in a frizzy wig. I get closer and see that it’s a dog. A tiny, hideous, hairless dog with a poof of white fluff on its head.
“Come on, this is bullshit,” he says as Poppy passes. “You know I’m allergic to dogs.”
“Which is why I gave you the hypoallergenic one,” she replies dismissively.
“Dude, I told you, that’s not a dog,” says Morrow. “It looks like that thing that sits on Jabba the Hutt in Return of the Jedi.”
I choke on a laugh. It totally does.
“Ryan, come take your pick,” Poppy calls. “We’ve got a cute little bulldog over here, a few kitties—Oh, sweet heavens—look at the way she’s looking at me,” she coos, bending over to stick her finger in the front of a cat carrier. “Claribel, tell me I don’t need a cat,” she whines, clearly lost to the little grey and white kitten sniffing her finger.
“You don’t need a cat,” Claribel deadpans, her eyes still on her phone.
The bulldog with an underbite peers up at me with watery eyes.
“Can we hurry this up?” Novy shouts. “This thing is hairless, and this is an ice rink. I think it’s getting frostbite.”
“Hold your horses,” Poppy huffs, flicking her long blonde ponytail off her shoulder. “And it’s not a thing, Lukas. It’s a dog. A very rare breed of dog called a Chinese crested.”
“It’s shivering, and it can smell my fear,” Novy snaps.
She huffs and turns away.
“So, uhh, what’s the deal here?” I say, glancing around at the smiling volunteers and the camera crew.
“We’re shooting a short commercial for the Humane Society,” Poppy replies. “It will go on all our socials too. Just pick an animal and take the card on top of their cage. Then you read out what’s on the card in front of the camera,” she says, gesturing to the little white cards attached to each cage and carrier.
My heart stops. “You, uhh…you want me to read what’s on the card?”
“Mhmm.” She snatches one off the top of the bulldog’s cage. “So, this one says her name is Gracie and she’s a five-year-old American bulldog. She’s house-trained, loves kids, blah, blah, blah. Just read the card.”
She foists it at me, and I feel my hand reach out and take it.
“Colton, you’re up first,” she calls, spinning away from me.
“Dude, I swear, I’m gonna adopt this little guy myself,” Morrow says, still laughing as the puppy squirms in his arms.
“At least yours has fur,” Novy replies. “I feel like I’m holding a raw chicken.”
I don’t hear the rest of their banter as the three of them wander off towards the cameras. I glance down again at the card in my hand. Fuck, it’s hand-written. The font is so damn small, and some genius used colored pens for each section. My heart races faster as I glance around, looking for some point of exit. Gracie the bulldog just peers up at me through the bars of her cage, judging me.
“Hey, can you stop slapping pucks for five minutes,” Poppy calls down the ice at the goalies. “You can stay in the shot, but we need some quiet for this.”
“You realize this is a hockey rink,” Coach Tomlin shouts back. “And this is a hockey practice!”
“I reserved this rink for 11:30,” she yells back. “You were supposed to be done a half hour ago. Now, clear off my ice, or I’ll drag you all in front of the camera. Yes, I mean you too, Eric!”
The goalies grumble, but they move off. Poppy may be all of 5’ tall, but she’s a force of freaking nature. The woman always gets her way.
Which means I’m about to be standing in front of a camera holding the leash of an ugly, fat bulldog, looking like a jackass as I try to read this stupid card. Fuck, this is the worst part about being a pro athlete. Why can’t I just play hockey? I’m actually good at that. I don’t mess it up.
“I can’t do this,” I say at Claribel, holding the card out to her. “Can you find someone else?”
She slowly looks up, glancing from the card to my face. “You wanna tell that to Poppy?”
I groan, my hand dropping to my side. “Claribel, you don’t understand. I can’t do this. I’ll play with the dogs. I’ll hold them. I’ll tell everyone how great they are—”
“It’s in your contract, Ryan,” she replies, dropping her gaze back to her phone. “Poppy says ‘jump,’ it’s your contractual obligation to ask ‘how high?’ Right now, Poppy says ‘hold a dog and read the card.’”
My anxiety mounts as I watch Morrow give a winning performance, the happy puppy wiggling in his arms. It’s so easy for him, so effortless. The media, the attention, the distractions.
But I’m not like him. This shit isn’t easy for me. I’m usually so good at avoiding it. And Poppy doesn’t usually corner us like this. She only snagged me because I was standing there looking like I had nothing to do.
Rule number freaking one: always look like you have something to do!
“Claribel, please,” I beg, trying to hand her the card again. “Get someone else.”
She slowly raises her gaze again, studying my face. “What’s your problem? Why is this such an issue for you?”
“It’s not—”
“What, did a dog bite you once?”
“No.”
“You afraid of cats?”
“No,” I reply with a roll of my eyes. “It’s not about the animals—”
“Oh, so you’re opposed to charities?”
“No,” I say, frustration rising.
“Then I don’t see the big deal. Just hold the leash, read the card, and earn your enormous paycheck. Stop being such a drama king.” Not waiting for my response, she stalks off.
Drama king? This is such fucking bullshit. My job shouldn’t depend on me doing shit like this without warning or time to prep or anything.
Ilmari shuffles past in his full goalie kit, helmet tucked under his arm.
“Mars,” I hiss, keeping my voice low.
He pauses, one brow raised at me.
I’m usually scared of this guy and would never normally approach him, but right now, I’m fucking desperate. “I need you to take over for me here.”
His brows narrow. “No,” he says, shrugging past.
“Mars, please.” I grab his arm, pulling on him.
“What the hell is your problem?” he growls, jerking his arm free of my hold.
“Mars, please do this for me. I can’t do it. I can’t—fuck,” I groan, dragging a hand through my hair. “Do it with me,” I offer. “I’ll hold the cat and play with it, and you read the card. The fans will love seeing both of us. Come on, please.”
He goes impossibly still, surveying me. Slowly, he glances over my shoulder, watching for a moment as Novy chats to the camera, pretending he gives a shit about the weird alien dog in his arms.
“I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t serious,” I admit. If there was one person I can trust with this, it’s Mars. He’s a total vault, nothing in or out. “I—fuck,” I groan again. “I need help, Mars.”
His gaze shifts back to me, studying me.
I let him look. I let him see my fear and panic as I hold out the card again. “Help me.”
He glances from me to the card.
“Okay, Ryan, you’re up,” Poppy calls. “Did you pick your animal? Let’s go, honeybun. We don’t have all morning.”
I wince, eyes shutting tight as I pray this will all be over soon. “Please,” I whisper again. “Please, Mars.”
Slowly, he reaches out and takes the card from me.
I let out a heavy breath of relief and nod. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he replies.
“Ryan!”
“We’re coming,” I shout, spinning around. “Mars and I are gonna shoot the spot together.”
“Oh—” Poppy glances between us, eyes wide with surprise. Like me, I think she’s a little afraid of the surly Finn. He gets out of everything unpleasant with just a glare. “Oh, that’s so wonderful,” she cries, clapping her hands.
“No dogs,” Mars says behind me. “Pick a cat.”
“Sure thing,” I say, hurrying over to the carrier holding the little grey and white kitten.
If Mars is helping me, he gets whatever he wants. I’ll hold a cat or a python or one of those weird naked mole rat things. Hell, I’d wrestle an alligator on camera if it means Mars reads the damn card.
“Oh my goodness, that kitten is double cute,” Poppy cries, hearts in her eyes as she watches me snuggle it. “You’re just the sweetest thing,” she coos. “Yes, you are. Yes, you are.” She ducks down, giving the little kitten kisses, her hands holding to my folded arms.
From behind her, Novy and Morrow glare at me, still holding their squirming dogs. Shit, the looks they’re giving me could peel paint.
“Uhh, Pop?” I say, shifting away from her.
“Oh,” she says with a laugh, dropping her hands away from me, totally oblivious to this new tension. “Are we ready then, gentlemen?” She glances to Mars. “You got the card?”
“Got it,” he says, holding it up.
“What’s the kitten’s name?” she asks, leading the way over to the cameras.
Mars glances down at the card with a frown. Then he sighs. “Miss Princess,” he mutters.
Poppy squeals. “Oh, it’s perfect! She is such a little princess.”
Mars and I both lean away from her exuberance. Over by the camera, Claribel just shakes her head.
“You owe me for this,” Mars say only loud enough for me to hear.
I give Miss Princess a little pat on the head. “Totally,” I say with a smile. My heart rate returns to a normal rhythm as we take our places in front of the camera.
