Page 13 of The Secret Play

“They call it a breakroom for a reason, Whit,” I said, pouring myself a cup. “You’re supposed to be taking a break.”

She glanced up, her angry expression softening slightly when she saw me. “Morning, Casey.”

Whitney Dobson was the backbone of the Atlanta Fire’s PR machine, a wizard at crafting stories and putting out fires—both literal and figurative—when the team’s reputation was at stake.

She’d been with the organization since before I came on board, and in all that time, I’d never seen her crack under pressure. But lately, there’d been a tightness in her shoulders and a strain in her voice that even her carefully polished professionalism couldn’t hide.

“Working through lunch again?” I asked, taking a seat across from her.

She sighed, pushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “It’s not like I have much of a choice. The team’s image took a beating last year, and I’m still trying to clean it up. Besides, breaks are for losers.”

“To my understanding, breaks are for humans. Come on, let me get you a cup of coffee so you might look up from that screen for longer than a blink.”

“Are you insinuating I am a human?”

I chuckled, shaking my head as I poured her a cup of coffee. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As I passed her the cup, she snatched it and sipped before uttering, “Thank you.”

I nodded. The past year had been rough. Between a string of bad press and a few serious high-profile scandals—most of them revolving around Luke Smith, our former playboy winger—Whitney had been running damage control nonstop. Things had started to settle down since Luke’s sudden wedding a few months ago, but Whitney clearly wasn’t ready to relax just yet.

“What’s the latest?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Is Keke doing okay since having the baby?” I wasn’t sure how she had survived the birth—Luke had a big head, so I doubted her labor would have been easy.

“Keke’s great, and Oscar is the best baby who ever babied, they are not my problem.”

“I thought having her around would mean your job got easier.”

She sighed and sat back, running a finger around the rim of her mug. “She tries. And she’s great at what she does. But that doesn’t change the fact that this team ismyshow, and with so many players doing their level best to make my life interesting, there’s only so much Keke can do. She’s a miracle worker, and I need something bigger than a miracle.”

“Well, how come? I thought things simmered down after their wedding and the baby.”

“It’s not Luke this time.” She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “The buzz around the Fire isn’t what it used to be. Ticket sales are steady, but they’re not growing the way we need them to. We need to get butts in seats. People aren’t excited about the team like they used to be. Which means putting your faces out there—positive press, feel-good stories, things that remind people why they love hockey.”

I took a sip of my coffee, mulling it over. “Any ideas?”

“That’s the problem,” she said, groaning softly. “I’ve brainstormed everything from community events to social media campaigns, but nothing feels big enough. We need something with real impact. Not just events. Something big on the ice, and that’s out of my hands. All I can do is make what you do look good, and that means the guys have to be perfect.”

I frowned, thinking about the balance Whitney had to strike every day. As much as she was the best in the business, she depended on having a good team to sell.

The Atlanta Fire was still a big name in the city, but we were a city with multiple professional teams, and tickets weren’t cheap. We had to convince people to part with their hard-earned money, and to do that, we had to provide them with a good show.

Or at the very least, good gossip, according to Whit, and to do that, we needed the press on our side.

A sticky proposition.

The press could be a double-edged sword, as we’d seen all too clearly with Luke. Granted, he was no Boy Scout, but he didn’t deserve the reaming the press had given him. One misstep, and the media could turn a puff piece into a feeding frenzy. Or in his case, several missteps. It was a reality I didn’t like but had learned to live with over time.

Before I could respond, the breakroom door swung open, and Nico Grimaldi strolled in, carrying an empty water bottle. His easy grin widened when he saw us, and he gave a mock salute to each of us. Even if all they ever wanted to do was play the game, everyone understood how integral Whitney was to the business side of things.

“Coach. Whit. What’s the crisis today?” he asked, heading for the water cooler.

“Just trying to figure out how to make you all look good,” Whitney said dryly, though there was warmth in her tone. “Any suggestions?”

“Come on, that’s gotta be the easiest part of your job,” Nico teased, filling his bottle. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. We’re the best looking, best playing, best all-around team in the league. You’re smart enough to know how to use us, right?”

She merely rolled her eyes and went back to her tablet.

I chuckled, shaking my head. Nico was in the final year of his contract, and while his skills on the ice were still sharp, his goofy humor had become one of the team’s greatest assets in the locker room.

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