“Miles Wallace,” Jennifer says, stopping at another desk. “Community relations coordinator. He'll be your best friend when it comes to rehabilitating anyone's image.”
“Hospital visits and youth hockey clinics,” Miles says, shaking my hand. “Nothing makes the public forget bad behavior like seeing someone read to sick kids.”
“Cynical but effective,” I note.
“Liz Griffin, media relations assistant,” Jennifer continues, introducing a sharp-eyed woman in her mid-twenties who's fielding phone calls while simultaneously typing notes. She gives me a quick wave and points to her headset apologetically.
We move past a young man hunched over research materials. “Adrian Woods, our intern. Syracuse journalism major and walking hockey encyclopedia.”
Adrian looks up. “You're the one handling Nova? That's so cool. I mean, challenging. Professionally challenging.”
Jennifer gives him a look. “And finally, Claire Hicks, our administrative coordinator. She's been here longer than anyone and knows where all the bodies are buried.”
Claire, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and an organized desk covered in team photos, smiles warmly. “Welcome, dear. Jennifer's told us good things about your work in Chicago.”
“Thank you. I'm looking forward to working with everyone.”
“Any questions?” Jennifer asks as we head toward my office.
“Just one. How much autonomy do I have with my approach?”
“As much as you need. Just get results,” she says.
My office is exactly as I left it on Friday afternoon. The only decoration I have is my potted orchid that somehow survived the move from Chicago. I bought it when I moved into my first apartment.
It has survived moves, job changes, and relationship disasters. It’s proof to myself that I can maintain something long-term despite my history of relationships.
I set my coffee on the desk and open my laptop, immediately diving into the overnight coverage of Liam's All-Star Weekend disaster. Each headline makes my chest tighten with frustration and something more personal that I refuse to acknowledge.
The photos are brutal. Liam has his arm around a blonde at some rooftop bar. In another, he’s kissing a brunette at a nightclub.
I was a fool to think that night in Chicago meant anything to him. Sadie was right. I was just another conquest in an endless parade of women. The thought is humiliating. I acted like just another groupie.
Just like I did with Kai.
“Morning damage report?” Jennifer asks, walking into my office. She settles on one of my client chairs.
I blink away memories of Kai. This is what matters.
“Seventeen outlets picked up the story. I've got calls scheduled with Bauer and Nike this morning.” I turn my laptop screen toward her. “The Saturday night photos are the worst. He looks completely out of control in this one.”
Jennifer sighs, studying the image of Liam with his tongue down some woman's throat. “Have you heard from him?”
“No.” I pull up my crisis management checklist. “I'm drafting a statement emphasizing his charitable work, but I need him to cooperate on some positive PR opportunities.”
Jennifer shakes her head. “I'll have him come up here after morning practice.”
The Nike call goes about as well as a root canal. I spend twenty minutes reassuring their marketing team that this is an anomaly, not a pattern, while privately wondering if Liam can really change.
“Young hockey players look up to Novak,” their marketing director says, her voice tight with disapproval. “What message does this send?”
“That he's human and makes mistakes,” I reply, keeping my tone professional despite my growing frustration. “What matters is how someone rebounds from those mistakes. Liam has an exemplary record of community service.”
It's a lie. His community service record is nearly nonexistent, but I can fix that if he cooperates.
After I hang up, I stare out my office windows at the empty arena seating and try to figure out how to manage a client who seems determined to sabotage himself. And me.
I’m deep in thought when there's a knock on my door. Before I can respond, it flies open.
