2

Chapter two

Scott

My eyes narrowed at my best friend's little sister. The little shit was infuriating in every single way.

I swear, if she weren't Reid's younger sister, I'd have found a hundred ways to make her life a living hell.

“You can go.” She said, and I rolled my eyes.

I clapped Reid on the back, and we both made our way toward the locker room.

I needed a shower.

“Proud of you, man.” He said.

“Thanks. I wish you could play. We would have dominated.”

He looked down at his leg.

“In a couple of months, I'll be as good as new. Doctor's orders.” He grinned. “And then I can beat your ass on the team again.”

We both laughed.

His phone buzzed. “Shit. I need to go. Got a doctor's appointment. We'll talk at the party.”

“Sure, soldier.” With that, he limped off.

“Dylan, my office.” The coach's voice echoed in the hall.

“Can I shower first?”

“No, my office now.”

I groaned but made my way down the hall to his office.

I pushed the door open and dropped into one of the visitor's chairs to the left.

“I know I know. I should have passed to Rot, but…”

“That's not what I want to talk to you about.”

“It's not?”

“No. Even though that was a very stupid decision.”

I nodded. Good. I had been preparing to hear an earful.

He folded his hand on the table. “There's a problem.”

“What is it?”

He placed a couple of photos and a newspaper clipping on the table.

“Read.”

Although the star player, Scott Dylan, has been nothing short of a hockey genius even without his equally talented teammate, Reid Bennett, his reputation for drinking, gambling, and sleeping around has made him the latest target of Sports by Damsels' scrutiny.

“So, it's nothing I haven't heard before," I shrugged.

“Oh, Scott. Your arrogance is going to be your downfall.”

“Because I like women and booze. I'm in college, Coach. Am I supposed to live like a monk? Even Jesus drank wine.”

“Shut up, Dylan, and listen to me.” Disick snapped.

“You're one of our finest players and are a projected NHL draft pick. No doubt about that, but if you keep up with this lifestyle, You could damage your draft stock before you even get there. Do you want that?”

I froze. No, no. That wasn't good. I shook my head. “Well, then you need to fucking shape up. I spoke to your agent, and he agreed that I should speak to you about this.”

“This is ridiculous. Since when did the NHL care about what a player does with his private life?”

“Look. It's a different time from when your uncle played. It's Gen Z or whatever y'all call yourselves. You can easily get cancelled. Hell, Sports by Damsels is already doing that. You need to stop all of this madness.”

“How?” I asked, my voice breaking.

I could already see the disappointment in my father's eyes if I don't get drafted before senior year is over.

“Well, I've asked a few of my publicist people, and they suggest you get yourself clean from alcohol, Stay away from gambling completely. And if you can't stay away from alcohol, at least stop getting drunk in public and get a girlfriend.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Dylan.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“No, this is your future.” He retorted, his brown eyes devoid of emotion.

“Fine. I'll fix it,” I finally agreed.

“Good. I have a few suggestions.”

“For what? A girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“I can choose my own girlfriend.” I said

“No, you can't. Your ex proves it. We need a girl that will help you restore your image… one that won't make things worse.”

I frowned. “What's wrong with the girls I date?”

He gave me a long, unimpressed look.

“Everything.”

I stared at him. He didn't even blink.

“Thanks, Coach," I said sarcastically. Apparently having flings with beautiful women was a crime punishable by law now.

“You're welcome.”

I leaned back in the chair, folding my arms across my chest. “So, what? You want me to pick some random girl and pretend we're in love?”

“Of course not. Don't be silly.”

“Oh, now I was the silly one.”

He reached for another sheet of paper.

I immediately became suspicious. “You already have someone in mind.”

“Of course I do.”

I groaned, not liking this at all. “Who?”

He slid the paper across the desk.

I looked down.

Then I froze.

MIA BENNETT.

I stared at the name, and I almost laughed, but one look at Coach's face made the amusement die in my throat.

“You're serious?”

“No, Dylan. I'm not, can't you tell by the wide smile on my face?”

“No.” I shook my head.

“You haven't even heard me out.”

“Because this is absurd, inane even.”

“She has a good reputation.”

“She hates me. And I don't exactly find her charming either. You saw what she said about me during the interview just an hour ago. Not to mention all the other interviews. No way!”

“Exactly.”

I frowned. “How the hell does hating each other help?”

“She isn't going to fall all over herself trying to impress you. She's a journalist. She's intelligent. She's already familiar with the team. And she's Reid's sister.”

I shook my head.

“This is insane.”

“Think about it. People already know her. If you suddenly start dating some random girl, everyone will assume it's PR.”

“And if I date Mia, the girl that the entire school knows hates me?”

“They'll believe it.”

I laughed bitterly.

“Coach, Mia would rather date a dead body than date me.”

“Then convince her.”

I stared at him. “You're seriously asking me to fake-date my best friend's little sister?”

“I'm asking you to protect your NHL future.” The humor disappeared from my face.

He had me there.

I had spent years working toward this.

The NHL wasn't some distant dream anymore. Scouts had been watching me all season. My agent had already spoken to several teams about my prospects after graduation.

Money had never been the problem in my family. My father had made sure of that long before hockey became my ticket to the NHL.

I was close. Too close to fucking screw it up now.

I rubbed my jaw. “I'm not even sure what I should say to her, and how long do I have to do this?

“Till you secure an NHL contract.”

“I am not fake-dating Mia for the next year and a half.”

“You are going to have to.”

“And what if she says no?”

“Then you figure something else out.”

I stood. “Great. Thanks for the help.”

“Dylan.” I stopped at the door.

“Clean up your act. No more public drunkenness. No gambling. And for God's sake, stop giving Sports by Damsels material.”

I glanced back at him. “You know, for a coach, you spend a lot of time worrying about my love life.”

“For a player, you spend a lot of time creating problems that shouldn't exist.”

Fair enough. I walked out and groaned in anger. “Fuck me!”

I turned to leave only to find her, the devil herself, staring at me.

Mia Bennett.

Standing in the hallway with Reid's tablet tucked beneath her arm.

Of course.

She looked up at me.

I looked at her. And for the first time since Coach gave me his ridiculous plan, I realized something.

Convincing Mia Bennett to fake-date me was going to be harder than winning that championship.