Page 12 of Play Your Part

6

ALEXEI

Thefirstpressquestionabout that fucking photo didn’t happen until two days after the party.

I’d seen the photo the next morning thanks to countless messages on social media. Ward couldn’t help but comment, bringing massive attention to something that would have otherwise disappeared without fanfare. In the photo, Kennedy’s face was hidden behind me, but someone must have recognized her. When I sat down to do my scheduled press conference—a.k.a. the bane of my existence—the Sunday morning before our first preseason game, it was the main topic the media wanted to discuss.

“There’s speculation around the internet that Kennedy Cole, daughter of Wolves owner, Cale Cole, is the woman in the photo from the season-opening party. Can you confirm that’s true?”

My mind went blank. No one prepared me for this question. This was a standard press conference to talk abouthockey,not internet gossip. If I confirmed it was her, it would unleash more questions about what happened between us. Denying it was her, though, would make me a liar, and it wouldn’t be long until someone could definitively prove it.

After an extended silence, I finally mustered a response. “I’m not here to talk about that.”

“So you’re saying there is something to talk about?” another reporter pressed.

I sat stone-faced, unwilling to acknowledge the questions. Ignoring them didn’t stop the onslaught though.What happened between you and Kennedy Cole at that party? Did you know she was Justin Ward’s ex? Did you go after her to get back at him for that cheap shot last season? Have you heard from Cale Cole?After a minute of nonstop questions, I shoved out of my seat and stormed out of the room without a word.

Erik stood against the opposite wall when I exited, arms crossed, with the same expression he wore when he disagreed with a call during a game. “Volkov,” he said coolly, tilting his head down the hall. “My office.”

I followed him two doors down, then closed the door behind us.

He took a seat at his neatly ordered desk. “I’m going to make this quick because I have a million things to do to get ready for this season. Did we not make ourselves clear about our expectations?” Erik didn’t wait for an answer before plowing forward, his voice building in volume. “You’re here to play hockey. Your focus should be on hockey. Not… whatever the hell you’re doing withyour boss’sdaughter.”

“Nothing happened,” I said resolutely, stepping toward him. “We talked at the party. That’s it. It’s the camera—”

Erik put up a hand. “Is this going to be a problem?”

“No, sir. My focus is entirely on the season. Playing well for you, for this team. If they ask again, I’ll answer the questions, and it’ll blow over.”

Seemingly satisfied, Erik nodded. “Good. Go get on the ice.”

Except the attention didn’t blow over by the next time I sat down with the media. In the three days between press conferences, Ward had given a statement saying his focus was on hockey rather than banging the owner’s daughter.SportsCenterpicked up the story and ran Justin’s tailor-made sound bite. It wasn’t long before social media did what it did best—stir shit up and make it bigger than it should be.

And all the hate was directed at me.

“Got a minute?” A woman with pin-straight black hair, heavy eye makeup, and wearing a power suit waited for me outside the locker room after practice.

“Who are you?”

“Deandra Collins, lead for media advertising.” She held out her hand, giving one strong shake once we connected. “Also the person who can get you out of this mess.”

The next day after practice, I stood in front of a mansion beside Deandra Collins and Peter Travis, director of marketing for the Wolves. It took some convincing to get me on board with this batshit idea to fix my media problem, but after the beating I’d taken in the press these past few days, I would try anything to stop the bleeding.

Even if it felt like a waste of time… time I could have spent at the arena, improving my game. A game I could lose if I didn’t fix this PR nightmare.

I swallowed my rage as the door opened to reveal two children—a girl with bright blonde hair in pigtails and a boy about double her height with light brown hair, wearing a Wolves jersey. As soon as they saw me, they started screaming and bouncing on their feet.

“Izzy! Mason!” a familiar voice called from inside the house above the sound of a wailing baby. “What did I tell you about opening the door to strangers?”

Moments later, Kennedy came into view, carrying a baby whose diaper she held secure with one hand. Upon seeing us, she stopped abruptly, as if she’d slammed into an invisible wall. No elegant dress or jewelry today, but disappointingly distracting in black leggings and a loose tank top, her hair pulled into a messy bun. It got worse for me when she wrinkled her nose.

“Kennedy,” Mason said, his voice defiant as he pointed to us. “This isn’t a stranger. It’sVolk.”

I gave the kid an approving nod before directing my attention to her. “Are you going to invite us in?”

Kennedy’s gaze quickly bounced around, falling on each of us before she answered. “Um, sure. I just need to text Connie to let her know we have visitors.”

Mason grabbed my arm. “Can I show you my room?”

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