Page 1 of Cold Feet
Chapter 1
Ipride myself on being first in the office every morning. It's the quiet I crave – that perfect slice of time when the St. Petersburg Slashers training facility belongs just to me. No sweaty players in the hallways (yet), no coaches barking orders, no social media fires to extinguish before I’ve even fired up my laptop..
Just me, my caffeine addiction, and the gentle hum of the climate control system fighting back Florida's oppressive heat like a champ.
This morning was no different. I juggled my laptop bag, purse, and what was definitely too many iced coffees (one for me, one for my assistant Katie, and one with an extra shot for Coach Michaels, who would literally rather die than admit he likes anything fancier than gas station swill) as I swiped my key card at the staff entrance.
The halls echoed with that early morning emptiness I loved. Fresh floor cleaner mixed with the lingering scent of hockey – testosterone, ice, and pure ambition.
Smells like home.
In my office, I set down the coffees and allowed myself thirty seconds to appreciate the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked our practice rink, still pristine from overnight resurfacing. Championship banners hung from the rafters like silent bragging rights, including last season's Stanley Cup. Not bad for a sunbelt expansion team that every hockey purist had written off as "Disney on Ice."
I settled into my chair and powered up my computer, mentally organizing my day while I mainlined caffeine. Media availability after the morning skate. Final approval on season ticket packages. Draft talking points for Logan's ESPN hit tonight.
My phone buzzed. Coach Michaels.
"Decker," I answered, channeling my most professional voice despite having known Sully Michaels since I was in pigtails.
"Conference room. Now." His voice had that gruff edge that made my stomach drop. In hockey speak, that tone meant someone was either traded, injured, or caught doing something spectacularly stupid on TikTok.
"Good morning to you too, Coach."
"The rest of us are already here." Click.
I stared at my phone. Whatever this was, it wasn't on my calendar. And in hockey, like in PR, unscheduled meetings usually meant someone's world was about to implode.
I grabbed Sully's coffee, mine, and my tablet, mentally cataloging possible disasters as I walked. Player injury? Instascandal?Please, hockey gods, don't let it be another secret baby situation.
When I pushed open the conference room door, I immediately knew this was DefCon 1 serious. Coach Sully sat at the head of the table like someone had stolen his favorite whistle. Coach Rocco flanked him, both wearing worried expressions. Marcus Thompson, our GM, tapped away at his phone with his usual intensity while chatting with Ryan Keller – one of the most ruthless sports agents in the business.
And there was Cam "The Hitman" Murphy.
Hockey's golden boy. The Slashers' star left-winger. My brother's best friend since they were teenagers terrorizing college hockey together. The man whose face I'd plastered across every billboard from Tampa to Orlando as "the NHL's most eligible bachelor."
The man I'd spent the better part of a decade pretending I didn't remember naked.
Cam sprawled in his chair like he owned the place, one long leg extended under the table, arms crossed over a faded Ramones t-shirt that hugged his shoulders in a way that was entirely unprofessional for me to notice. His golden-brown hair was still damp from a post-workout shower, and when our eyes met across the table, his jaw tightened just enough for me to notice.
Those eyes. Still the same impossible shade of blue that had made me forget my own name once upon a time.
"Lana," Coach Sully nodded. "Close the door."
I set his coffee in front of him – a peace offering for whatever shit storm was brewing – and took the only remaining seat. Directly across from Cam, because apparently the universe has a sick sense of humor.
"What's going on?" I asked, directing my question to Sully while mentally cataloging everyone's stress levels. Years of crisis management had taught me that reading the room was often more useful than whatever corporate speak came out of people's mouths.
Ryan Keller cleared his throat, all business in his two thousand-dollar suit. "We have a situation with Cam's image."
My gaze snapped to Cam. Public image was my domain. If there was a problem with how the world perceived Cameron Murphy, it was ultimately my problem to fix.
"What kind of situation?" I asked, tablet at the ready.
"Redline Athletics wants to make Cam their first NHL endorsement athlete," Ryan continued. "We're talking major mainstream crossover. Game-changing money."
I nodded. Redline was massive – Nike and Adidas level. Getting them interested in hockey, let alone one of our players, was like landing a unicorn.
"That's incredible news," I said carefully, waiting for the other skate to drop.
