Page 2 of Dirty Play

“Your coffee.”

“Thank you.” He picks up his coffee and turns around, those green eyes flicking my way. “Have a nice day.” And with that, he walks out the door, everyone’s eyes following him.

I stare, mouth half-open, as he disappears out the door.

The barista clears his throat, pulling me out of my rage spiral. “Um, here’s your order too, Miss.”

“Thank you so much,” I smile at the young man who at least had the grace to make my coffee as well as Mr. Line Cutter’s. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh,” he says. “It’s already paid for.”

I blink. “What?”

“Mr. DiMarco paid for your coffee.” He waves at the door where Mr. DiAsshole just walked out. Amazing, so he’s a regular then. I need to remind myself not to come here again, despite this café being the closest to the Panthers’ headquarters.

“He did?” I gape at the young man, who just shrugs apologetically. I don’t want to hold the line any more, so I just thank him again with a polite smile before walking off.

As I leave the café, I replay the whole interaction in my head. The way he didn’t argue, didn’t explain himself. The way he’d just…paid.

It’s annoying.

It’s confusing.

It’s the perfect warm welcome to LA, where entitled playboys like him are in abundance.

The Panthers’ headquarters is everything you’d expect from a multi-billion-dollar franchise. I pause at the double doors, letting its size sink in. Sleek glass panels, polished steel accents, and a huge logo glinting above the double doors like a crown. Just stepping inside feels like a power move.

I clutch my bag and cup of coffee a little tighter, my nerves buzzing like I’ve downed three Red Bulls. This is it. This is the first step toward proving I belong here. No farm, no backup plans, just me and my career.

Inside, the air hums with energy—phones ring, conversations echo, and there’s the faint tap of hurried footsteps on polished floors. Everything is colorful and modern, from the high ceilings to the massive light-up Panthers logo dominating the lobby wall.

I walk to the reception desk and introduce myself, doing my best to sound confident despite the tiny voice in my head that keeps whispering, “What if they don’t take you seriously?”

The receptionist types something into her computer and then picks up a phone. “Someone from HR will be right down, Ms. Moody,” she says with a friendly smile. And that, truthfully, eases my nerves a bit.

“Thank you.” I adjust my blazer and glance around, my anxiety giving way to excitement.

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in a plush leather chair in the HR office, trying to keep my leg from bouncing like I’ve had way too much caffeine.

The HR rep, Christina, slides a contract across the desk, smiling warmly. “We’re thrilled to have you on board, Livia. Let’s go over the details.” She’s a woman in her mid-thirties with curly brown hair, milk-chocolate skin, a flawless outfit, and a warm smile that I’m more than thankful for.

As we review the paperwork, I spot a particular clause:

MORAL CONDUCT AGREEMENTRelationships between team personnel and players are prohibited.

“You guys really lock things down here.” I snort softly.

“Yes,” she huffs out a laugh. “We don’t want personal matters interfering with the team dynamic.”

“Of course,” I say, though I’m already rolling my eyes internally. I didn’t come here for romance. I came to climb the PR ladder and prove myself. Still, I scribble my signature. This is it. I’m officially an NHL team’s PR agent.

God, this feels so good.

Another ten minutes later, Tina, a bubbly staff member assigned to show me around, chats enthusiastically as we weave through the labyrinthine halls of the building.

“We’re so happy to have a fresh face on the team. You’re going to love it here,” she says, her black ponytail bouncing as she walks. “The guys are great, total professionals. Well, mostly.”

“Mostly?” I raise an eyebrow.

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