Meet Your Match (Kings of the Ice)

“You’re serious.”

It wasn’t a question so much as a statement of mild disbelief. I arched a brow at Coach McCabe, who seemed about as pleased as Daddy P after someone managed to score on him, before I turned my attention back to our general manager.

Richard Bancroft was a joyful man, soft around the waist with pale white skin, ginger hair, and rosy-red cheeks. He always wore a smile like he’d just found out his only daughter was getting married, and he was also known for pitching some of the stupidest ideas with that grin firmly in place.

He was known by staff and players alike as Dick, which was the nickname he gave himself back in college. Of course, depending on what he’d wrangled the team into that week, the players might have used it in a more callous way than he intended.

“It’s brilliant!” he said, and I wasn’t sure if he was trying to sell me on that statement or my coach, who still wore an unamused frown and his arms folded over his chest.

Where Dick was soft and cheery, Coach Shane McCabe was lean, tall, and severe. At thirty-eight, he was the second-youngest coach in the league, and one look at the guy told you he had a chip on his shoulder and a point to prove. He was the kind of coach a player dreamed of working with, one who was stern and took no shit, but also didn’t ride your balls too hard.

“Just think of the buzz it’ll stir up,” Dick continued. “You’re the hottest news this team has had since 2004, kid. And if we didn’t use that to our advantage to fill those seats,” he added, pointing in the direction of the rink. “Then we’d be fools.”

“It’s a distraction,” Coach said from his corner.

“It’s a goldmine,” Dick argued, and the rare look of severity that overtook him as he looked pointedly at Coach told me this wasn’t up for debate.

The Tampa Bae Babes was going to do an exclusive, a month walking in my shoes in the height of my first season with the Ospreys.

And that feisty little snoot from the gala was the one who’d be in charge of the piece.

Maven King.

I smirked a little at the thought of her, that same mixture of curiosity and indignation flaring in my chest. To say I’d been surprised when I’d looked her up would have been a vast understatement.

I didn’t know what I expected to find, but it wasn’t a bohemian flower child who had fifty-thousand followers and a love for being barefoot in her parents’ garden. After seeing her all dolled up in a gown with diamonds glittering on her earlobes, it had been a shock to see her in her natural habitat — earth-toned flowing fabrics, foundation-free skin, and natural, curly hair.

The images of her with her family were a stark contrast of the ones I had with my own. My parents both came from money, their grandparents smart with their investments. We had what I’d heard referred to as generational wealth, the kind that meant we really never had to want for anything.

I wasn’t too proud to admit growing up in that atmosphere had spoiled me a bit. I liked designer clothes, exotic cars, expensive restaurants, and luxury travel experiences. I didn’t know what it was like to check the price tag on something before I bought it — even before I got the nice signing bonus as a rookie with the Ospreys.

Still, my parents both had careers, even though they didn’t technically need them to provide for themselves, and they brought me and my sister up with the same expectation. I was thankful for their support when I told them hockey was my dream.

I was well aware that not every kid had the opportunity to play an expensive sport, let alone have their parents at almost every game.

I’d spent more time than I’d ever admit scrolling through Maven’s pictures and wondering what her childhood was like, smiling a little more with each new discovery I made at who she was now. And seeing a post about her parents and their philanthropic nature, along with the dozens of photos and videos of her out in the community with them, I, at least, had a little context to put with the attitude she’d given me at the gala.

I also found it quite amusing, to hit the little heart button on a few of her photos and have the satisfaction of knowing she’d likely blow a gasket when she got the notifications.

Even as intriguing as I found her, I agreed with Coach on this one. Having anyone follow me around would be a nuisance. But having her?

Distraction with a capital D.

But if this was part of the path I needed to take to impress my GM and inch my way closer to the Calder Memorial Trophy, then I wasn’t about to argue. I wanted to be rookie of the year, and sometimes that meant doing stupid shit I didn’t want to in order to make the bosses happy.

The way Dick was behaving, I didn’t think I had much of a choice, anyway.

“Whatever I can do to help the team, I’ll do it,” I finally said.

“Atta boy!” Dick beamed, hopping out of his chair as I rose to stand, too. He shook my hand and clapped me on the shoulder as I shared a wary glance with Coach. “Everyone who counted Tampa out years ago is about to eat their words.”

“Yes, sir,” I agreed when we pulled back.

Richard and Coach talked for a few minutes before we were excused, and Coach let out a sigh once we were out of the front office suite and in the elevator heading down to the team’s domain.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure you can see there was no talking him out of that one.”

“It’s fine,” I assured him. “Besides, maybe he’s onto something. A little good press can’t hurt, right?”

Coach lifted a brow. “As long as it stays good.”

I smirked, drawing a little halo around my head that made Coach relax a little on a laugh.

“I’m supposed to have a call with the…” He paused, scrunching his nose. “What do we call her? Reporter? Influencer?” He shook his head. “Regardless, we’re touching base this afternoon. Bancroft is eager to get her in here and get started, so I imagine we can expect her at practice in the morning. I hope she settles in quickly because we head to Boston tomorrow night.”

“Oh, good,” I said as we stepped off the elevator and made our way toward the locker room. “She’ll be here just in time for me to smoke the Beavers.”

“For us to smoke them,” he corrected.

“Right,” I said with a wink.

Coach just shook his head, blowing his whistle when we made it back to the ice. I had to pause to change into my skates again while he called everyone together to run over our drills for the day.

“In trouble already, Pidge?” Jaxson asked when I skated out.

“Nope. Just stepping in as Tampa’s shiny new toy.”

He cocked a brow.

“Some reporter is going to follow me around for a month,” I said nonchalantly. Then, I lowered my voice so Coach wouldn’t grill my ass for interrupting his practice. “Remember the girl in the yellow dress at the gala?”

“Like any of us could forget.”

“She’s the one.”

“Proposing already?” He smirked.

I flattened my lips. “She’s the reporter, the one who’s doing the piece.”

Both of his brows shot up at that. “You mean she’s going to be the one following you around?”

I nodded.

“What all does this entail, exactly? Like just here at the rink?”

“Everything,” I said. “Practice, travel, home games and away games, too. My life on the road. My life here in the city.”

“Like… twenty-four seven?”

“Apparently.”

A shit-eating grin curled on Jaxson’s face. “Interesting.”

I just nodded with a smile of my own.

Interesting, indeed.