Page 17 of Snowed In With the PUCK

He’s left three voicemails already, all probably filled with the same old demands: updates on my career, questions about the firm’s big clients, reminders about the Romano family name I’m supposed to uphold through a successful career in law. It’s always the same with him, like he’s keeping tabs on every move I make, never satisfied with anything I do.

I hit decline and toss the phone onto the passenger seat, sighing as I glance at the surrounding city. Christmas lights adorn the streetlamps, and someone has decked out the shop windows with wreaths and glittering ornaments. Holiday cheer is everywhere, but all I feel is this hollow pressure, like I’m constantly being pulled in two directions—clinging to myfreedom and trying to live up to Dad’s expectations. And now there’s Eric.

A part of me wonders about his mom, the woman in that old photo, the one he found in his moving boxes the other day. There was something about the way his face changed when he looked at it, a flicker of pain and confusion. I could see it bothered him, but we didn’t talk about it, just like we didn’t talk about the…otherthing. The intimacy we shared on the couch. I close my eyes for a moment at a red light, feeling the heat rise in my chest just thinking about it.

It’s for the best that we keep ignoring it, right? Pretending like it didn’t happen. We barely know each other, and we’re just stuck in this situation temporarily. Eric has enough going on in his life without the added complication of… us. Especially with whatever he’s dealing with about that photograph. Whatever the backstory is with his mom, it’s tied to something deep in his past—something painful.

The cold seeps through the windows, fighting against my luxury car’s heater as I grip the steering wheel tighter, trying to shove the thoughts aside. Eric and I need to stay professional. Period.

We can’t afford to mix professional and personal.

Feeling somewhat more at peace with the reality of my thoughts, I round the corner toward downtown. My phone lights up on the passenger seat with a dozen notifications. The screen keeps flashing with messages, calls, and news alerts. What the hell?

I glance at the phone while stopped at a stop sign, my heart skipping a beat as I catch a glimpse of the headlines.“NHL Star Eric ‘Gator’ Warren Seen Cozying Up to Team Attorney Jessica Romano: Are They More Than Just Friends?”

My stomach drops.Cozying up?I frantically scroll through the messages, reading the one from Jason, my boss, first.

Jason:Get to the arena ASAP. Emergency meeting. PR is involved.

An emergency meeting? I switch lanes, heading toward the arena instead of the office. I glance at the photos attached to the headlines—pictures of Eric and me in the suite before the game. Someone took our hug out of context, making it look like we're together.

I groan. This can’t be happening.

I manage to reach the arena within fifteen minutes, the first swirls of snow coming down from the mostly blue sky. As I park and head inside, the biting cold seeping through the cracks of my coat, my phone buzzes again. It’s Jason calling. I answer with a sigh.

“Jessica,” he says, his tone brisk and all business. “This media frenzy isn’t going to die down on its own. The team’s PR is looking for damage control, and Kip wants you in the executive suite right now.”

“Jason, this is ridiculous. Eric and I aren’t—”

“It doesn’t matter what you are or aren’t,” he cuts me off. “Right now, the media thinks you two are involved, and we’re going to find a way to squash it… or use it. Get up there. Now.”

The line goes dead, and I’m left standing in the cold hallway of the arena, feeling like the floor just dropped out from under me. They’re going to consider using it? For what purpose? I get the feeling that PR already has a plan, and Jason knows what it is.

This is my career on the line. I work with these people. I represent the team’s ownership. I think of my dad’s missed calls and the pressure he puts on me.

What have I gotten myself into?

I make my way up to the executive offices, my pulse pounding in my ears. When I walk into the room, Jason is already there, sitting across from Kip Brown, the team’s owner, and the PR manager, Allison, is pacing near the window, looking as frazzled as I feel.

“Jessica, glad you could make it,” Kip says, his voice smooth and calm, as if this is just another day at the office.

I take a seat, my palms sweating. “I came as soon as I heard. What’s going on, exactly? About the photo, I can explain…”

Allison steps forward, a stack of papers in her hands. “The photos of you and Eric from last night have gone viral. Social media is blowing up with speculation that you two are a couple,and the press is already running stories about it. We need to address this quickly before it spirals out of our control.”

I blink at her, trying to wrap my head around the situation. It was a quick, innocent hug. I don’t see what the big deal is. The look on her face tells me it is, in fact, a very big deal to everyone else here. “And how do you plan to do that?”

Allison glances at Kip, who gives her a nod to continue. “Eric was sent to us as a rehab project, of sorts. To rehab his image in the Avalanche, a team ranked much lower than Nashville.”

I already know this.

“He claims he was baited and framed for a violent outburst on the ice in Nashville. He was almost suspended. Now, he is ‘cozying up’ to an attorney who represents the team… this is a new blow to his image.” Her voice is steely.

“What is your ask here?” I know the game well enough to know she’s painting a dire picture, then will tell me something sacrificial I can do or agree to that will help the situation. I do this myself, back in court in NYC and even before that.

“We want you and Eric to play along.”

My stomach turns at the implication. “Play along? You mean… pretend we’re actually together?”

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