Page 4 of Body Check

Over my dead body.

I shove one foot into a ballet slipper, then do the same with the other. Time for business. “Listen, Steven, it’s quite an honor that you flew out here from L.A. to talk to me about your new show—”

“Getting Pucked.”

Adding insult to injury, the show’s name is downright cringeworthy despite the intentional pun. And, if memory serves me well, my grandmother also had a hockey romance novel on her bookshelf by the same name.

The depressing fact is, “getting pucked” in reality isn’t as amazing as fiction makes it out to be—although is reality ever better?

At Steven’s impatient drumming of his fingers on my desk, I force a tight smile. “Right,Getting Pucked.” More smiling on my part; my lips peel back from my teeth and I briefly worry that I look positively feral. When Steven doesn’t shirk back in fear, I let out a controlled sigh of relief. “Listen, it sounds like a great premise. It really does, but—”

“Nothing’s been done like this for hockey before. Football? There’sHard Knocksover on HBO andA Football Lifetelevised by the NFL Network, butGetting Puckedhas the ability to blow those successes out of the water. It’s a gamechanger for Sports 24/7.” Steven’s dark eyes brighten with excitement as he fidgets with the stiff collar of his dress shirt. “Can you imagine it? An intimate camera crew following the players of the Boston Blades—getting in their heads, observing their daily lives, showing the world what it really means to play for the NHL.”

I’m not buying it. Yes, I have my own reasons for not wanting Carter Photography to act as a sacrificial lamb for the cause but, ignoring the elephant in the room named Jackson Carter for a hot second, Steven has yet to answer one pressing question . . .

“Why the Blades?” I ask. “Why not the Kings since your studios are in L.A? Or even the Blackhawks? Let’s get real—Chicago won the Cup last year, not us.”

I say “us” like I still watch the Blades, which I don’t.

Seeing Jackson in his element does funny things to my stomach and inevitably leads to devouring a gallon of Moose Tracks ice cream in a single sitting.

It’s not a pretty sight to behold.

Steven sits back, hands interlacing over his round belly. “You want to get real,Holly?” His mouth curls in a smarmy grin. “The truth is, everyone knows the Blades are on the verge of a complete overhaul. Half their first line is predicted to retire this year. Duke Harrison, for one. Who knows what’ll happen next season with him gone—the Blades have operated on a we-have-the-Mountain-and-we’re-good rationale for at least four years, and it’s no secret that Tommy Kase isn’t ready to fill Harrison’s shoes. Then there’s talks of Weston Cain bowing out. Man’s already got one reconstructed hip on the books.”

I wince at the mention of the Blades’ defenseman. At twenty-eight, Cain is still young, but the sport doesn’t play nice when you’ve got a penchant for dropping gloves and throwing fists. The body might be a temple, but on the ice, it’s a punching bag on the best of days and roadkill on the worst.

“And then there’s Jackson Carter.”

My gaze cuts to Steven’s, even as my stomach twists with unease. “Oh? What about him?”

“There’rerumors.”

He says it like Ishould know what he’s talking about. Me, the wife. Theex-wife. Jackson and I might be friendly whenever we cross paths—like we were at Andre and Zoe’s wedding two weekends ago—but we don’t talk otherwise. I don’t pick up my phone to send him ahow are you?text, and he definitely doesn’t reach out either.

The Cold War has reached Boston, Massachusetts, my friends.

Appropriate, I think, since it’s so damn cold out for half the year. Which couldn’t be more different than my hometown of Natchitoches, Louisiana—a small, historical blip on the map some three hours outside of New Orleans. Living in New England for more than a decade, though, has thickened my blood in more ways than one.

I set the pen down and push away from my desk to stand. “Steven, personal reasons aside”—it’s not like he didn’t blatantly check out my bare ring finger when he first walked in—“Carter Photography isn’t equipped to handle the scale of a production likeGetting Pucked. We’re a small company that packs a big punch, but we have our limits.”

“That’s what we want.”

Yeah, sure he does. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Right now, youthinkthat’s what you want. But when we’re knee-deep in preseason, and there are multiple players’ storylines to relay to the viewers, whose do we prioritize?” Folding my arms over my pink knit dress, I tilt my head and study him. “I know where you’re going with this—you want the ex-wife of the Blades’ beloved captain trailing him and making you some damn good TV. If you wanted this to succeed, you would have approached a media firm that’s as deep as the Blades’ roster.” My chin lifts. “Instead, you chose me. Us. Carter Photography. Ten employees total—three of which are strictly admin.”

Not even an eye twitch from the peanut gallery. Watching me steadily, Steven says, “Carter Photography has won multiple awards in the last few years. Your photos have graced the front page of every big-time sports magazine in the States. Every pro-sports team in the Boston area has you on their payroll because of the quality that you deliver—you and your nine other employees.”

He’s not wrong.

In the last few years, the company has skyrocketed to heights I never even allowed myself to consider tangible. Carter Photography started as nothing more than a hobby. It was my way of discovering what mademehappy when faced day in and day out with the fire Jackson applied to his career. Living with a formidable force like my ex-husband . . . Well, it was either start a fire of my own or be swept up in the maelstrom that was his everyday life.

I opted for the former at the risk of being destroyed by the latter.

Turns out, my knack for taking pictures was something others appreciated. The New England Patriots have us creating visual anecdotes that they use on their social media platforms. The Boston Celtics have us on speed dial—every time they want innovation in the form of commercials or mini-documentaries about their players, Carter Photography is the first firm they call.

I might not be able to spiral a football or shoot a free throw, but I’ve spent the latter part of my twenties and early thirties making Carter Photography indispensable to New England’s professional sports teams.

And it cost you everything, didn’t it?

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