I turn my head slowly.
Tinnie steps in before I can speak. “What he means is, you’re intimidating. On the ice, that works. But off the ice? It makes you hard to market.”
“You’re saying people don’t like me.”
“I’m saying people don’t know you.”
“They know I win games.”
“You’ve always been associated with your game, and this?” She waves a hand to the screen again. “It makes people see you in a more personal light.”
“So let me get this straight.” My voice cuts through the room. I already know what they’re about to suggest. “You want me to parade a stranger around because you think I look like the fucking boogeyman?” I huff a laugh. “Have you seen Zed? People look at him and cross the street. His image makes mine look like a Boy Scout.”
That’s true. Our goalie looks like he eats souls and drinks battery acid. Next to him, I look like a pink butterfly perched on a wildflower.
“Zed’s image works because he doesn’t speak. He’s a mystery. People are happy to get even a little glimpse of him. You? You lead. You talk. You carry this team. Zed isn’t the one wearing the C on his jersey. You are. This isn’t about who’s scarier in a fight, Dom. This is about the face of the franchise. And right now, that face is yours. When fans can’t relate to their captain, it creates distance.”
“And now you want to close the gap.”
“Exactly.”
I exhale through my nose and stare down at the paused frame on the screen. Jessica, holding a dress up to the camera, grinning. Stunning.
“This isn’t going away,” Tinnie says softly. “But if we use it right... it could work for both of you.”
I drag my tongue across my teeth, fighting the urge to roll my eyes at the little flutter in my chest each time I see her face on the screen in front of me.
“That’s your job. Optics.”
“This isn’t just about playoffs.” Tinnie’s voice drops, controlled and deliberate. “You want that academy, don’t you, Dom?”
My eyes lock on hers, and I finally see the whole picture. My face must have changed because Tinnie’s gaze softens with understanding.
The Blazer Youth Academy. My project. My idea. My shot at leaving something that matters after I hang up the skates. A facility for kids who’d never get a chance otherwise—scholarships, equipment, ice time, clinics. Miami isn’t built for hockey. Too hot and too expensive. Kids with talent never even lace up because they can’t afford it. The academy would change that. It could give them ice time, the coaching, the equipment. We could grow the next generation. Our legacy. Something bigger than my name.
And it’s been sitting in committee hell. The board likes the idea in theory but hates the cost, hates the optics. Sponsors hesitate. Parents whisper. I’m not the poster boy they want smiling in front of them.
“You want the board to sign off on the foundation?” Tinnie presses. “She’ll help.”
I’ve bled for that project. Meetings that went nowhere, presentations that turned into arguments, sponsors nodding politely before passing on the risk. I’ve sat in boardrooms and laid out every number, every benefit, every goddamn angle to prove it matters. I’ve fought tooth and nail to make them see.
And now? A girl I met for five minutes in a club apparently holds the key in her little hands.
I can feel my jaw clench, the pulse in my temple. I hate not being the one holding the reins. I hate that something this important could rest on anyone but me. And I fucking hate that they’re right.
Tinnie doesn’t give me time to think it through.
“If she posts about it, if she lends her voice, we’re talking millions of eyes, Dom. A completely different demographic. Parents. Kids. People outside the usual hockey bubble. She makes them care. She makes them want it. And the board will see that.”
Tinnie watches me for a second, like she can see the fight winding up behind my eyes.
Her assistant, too young to read the room, speaks up. “To be clear, Mr. Moreal, you’re still the bigger name. Way bigger. She’s not eclipsing you in any way. She just has a different audience.”
“An audience you’ll reach through her,” Tinnie says, seizing the moment.
They want me to play boyfriend.
I can feel the old weight pressing down on my chest again. A phantom pressure from a different life. One I buried years ago.
