“Twenty-three, to be exact,” the younger guy chimes in, eager.
I sit back and let them pour the honey.
“We’re seeing new crossover interest,” he says, scrolling on his tablet. “Comments from non-sports accounts. Lifestyle bloggers. A few outlets picked up some user footage and did reaction pieces.”
I nod slowly. “And you needed me in here to say good job?”
Tinnie’s eyes flick toward her team. “We wanted to show you the traction. You’ve been consistent for years, but this feels like a moment. And if we’re smart about it, we can keep the momentum going into the playoffs.”
I drag a hand over my jaw and stare at the ceiling for a second, already suspecting where this is going. “Are you going to tell me what this is about, or keep using buzzwords?”
“The girl,” Tinnie says, folding her hands on the table like we’re discussing budget cuts. “We need to talk about her.”
There it is.
She nods to the woman on her left and a screen lights up.
Just standard phone footage. It’s grainy and shaky—someone filming the VIP section of the club from a distance. I’m used to it.
I’m there, in frame, walking along the rope, halfway turned. And then she appears—blonde hair, red dress, and a slim hand shooting out to grab my arm.
The camera mic fuzzes with bass and background noise, but her voice cuts through: “There you are, babe! Took you long enough.”
The clip keeps playing. On screen, I don’t hesitate. I look down at her and immediately slide my arm around her waist, the movement automatic. The video cuts just when I pull her into me and plant a kiss near her jawline. I sit back, jaw tight, staring at the frozen last frame. It feels off—the way I remember it felt longer, slower. The moment my eyes met hers, the world stopped moving. I looked at her and it feltlike we were locked in that space for a lifetime before I even touched her. But now, on the screen? It’s three seconds, maybe four. I look at her, I pull her in, and it’s done.
I can feel all their eyes on me.
“So,” Tinnie says carefully. “Anything you want to tell us?”
“No idea who she is.” I turn to them, blank-faced, like I didn’t just watch a video of myself betraying every line I’ve drawn around my personal life for the past few years.
“You don’t know her?” Tinnie raises a brow.
“I don’t.” I shake my head.
“She called you babe.” The woman with the tablet glances up, confused.
“She needed a prop, and I stepped in.” I shrug. “I was being polite.”
I reach for the water bottle left for me on the table, twist the cap, taking a long drink.
Tinnie leans back slowly. Her eyes never leave mine.
“Well,” she says, finally. “Whether you know her or not…the story’s already out there.”
“Then bury it.” I set thebottle down.
“That’s the thing, Dom.” She gives me a tight smile. “The whole world’s going crazy over it. There’s no burying it.”
“My teammates get seen with women hanging off them all the time.” I lean back, arms crossed. “Half the roster’s been filmed leaving clubs with two girls and a toothpick. Why is this different?”
“Because you don’t do this, Dom.” Tinnie exhales like she’s been waiting for that one. “You’re way too private. You’ve spent your entire career keeping the lines clean between hockey and your personal life. This is the first time people have seen you do something like this.”
“Okay,” I huff, not knowing why this calls for a meeting.
“She’s not just another girl, either,” Tinnie adds carefully. “Her name’s Jessica Brooks. She’s actually...kind of a big deal.”
“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. Oh, she’s a big deal, alright. One look from this girl and I was a goner. No one has ever done this to me in my thirty-two years on this earth.
