chapter 7

“The key to a successful PR strategy is controlling the narrative,” said Lisa Chen, the Blades’ head of public relations. “Right now, the narrative is ‘Jack Reynolds’ mystery divorce.′ We need to change that.” Two weeks had passed since the snowstorm confrontation. Emma sat in a conference room with Lisa and Alek, discussing her eventual public debut as team co-owner. Lisa had no idea who Emma really was—she knew her only as “Emma Carter,” Franklin Mitchell’s assistant and strategic consultant. “What do you suggest?” Emma asked, hyper-aware of Alek sitting across the table. They’d been painfully professional since that night, maintaining careful distance in meetings and communicating mostly through emails. “We need a rollout plan. Press release, exclusive interview with a friendly outlet, social campaign.” Lisa tapped her tablet. “When Mr. Mitchell is ready to announce his successor, we should be prepared.” Alek cleared his throat. “There are timing considerations. Personal matters that need to be resolved first.” Lisa looked confused. “Personal matters?” “Legal complications,” Emma said vaguely. “Nothing serious, just things that need finalizing before we go public.” “Well, whenever you’re ready, I’ve drafted some announcement options.” Lisa slid a folder across the table. “Mr. Volkov thought you should review them, given your... unique perspective on the situation.” Emma took the folder, careful not to let her fingers brush Alek’s as he passed it over. Inside were three press release drafts, each announcing Franklin Mitchell’s decision to transition ownership shares to his granddaughter, Emma Mitchell Reynolds. Her stomach clenched at seeing her full name in print. “These are very thorough.” “They assume we’ll wait until after your divorce is final,” Alek said quietly. “To avoid complications.” Emma’s head snapped up. “You told her?” “Only what she needed to know.” Alek’s expression gave nothing away. “Lisa has handled sensitive transitions before. She’s discreet.” Lisa nodded. “Your situation isn’t unprecedented, Ms. Carter—or should I say, Mrs. Reynolds? Having an owner connected to a player requires careful messaging.” “Ms. Mitchell, actually,” Emma corrected, testing how it felt. “I’ll be reverting to my maiden name.” “Even better for branding purposes,” Lisa said cheerfully, oblivious to the tension between Emma and Alek. “Clean break, fresh start.” “The divorce should be final in three weeks,” Emma said. “We’ll need to wait at least that long.” “Perfect timing,” Lisa gathered her materials. “That gives us runway to prepare. I’ll leave you two to discuss the specifics.” The moment the door closed behind Lisa, the professional veneer cracked. Emma slumped in her chair. “She knows who I am.” “Only that you’re Franklin’s granddaughter and Jack’s soon-to-be-ex. Nothing about... us.” “Is there an ‘us’?” Emma asked, meeting his eyes for the first time that day. Alek’s expression softened. “You know there is. Just not yet.” “Three more weeks.” Emma sighed. “At least it gives me time to prepare for the role. I’ve been reviewing all the contracts, learning the CBA inside out.” “I’ve noticed. Your analysis of the salary cap implications for next season was impressive.” “I had a good teacher.” She allowed herself a small smile. Alek checked his watch. “I should go. Pre-game meetings.” “Big game tonight,” Emma nodded. “Montreal.” “You coming?” “No, I’d better not. Jack’s already suspicious enough.” She gathered her papers. “Besides, I promised Grandpa I’d have dinner with him. He’s not happy about being kept in the dark about... recent developments.” Alek winced. “He knows about the snowstorm incident?” “He knows everything. It’s like he has spies everywhere.” Emma rolled her eyes. “Probably does, actually.” “Tell him I’m sorry for the complications.” “Tell him yourself at Sunday dinner.” Emma froze, realizing what she’d said. “I mean, if you want to come. Grandpa suggested it. Not me. I wouldn’t presume—” “I’d like that,” Alek interrupted her rambling. “If you’re comfortable with it.” “I am.” She stood, smoothing her skirt. “Professional dinner with my grandfather and my colleague. Totally appropriate.” “Totally,” Alek agreed, though his eyes said something else entirely. Emma settled into her grandfather’s private box at the arena, grateful for the privacy. Franklin had insisted she come watch the game after their dinner, claiming he needed her “analytical eye,” which was his way of saying he wanted company. “Reynolds looks terrible,” Franklin commented as Jack fumbled a pass. “Third missed opportunity tonight.” “He’s distracted,” Emma replied, watching Jack slam his stick against the boards in frustration. “By his supermodel? Or by you and Aleksander making eyes at each other in my boardroom?” Emma choked on her drink. “Grandpa!” Franklin shrugged unapologetically. “I’m old, not blind. The way that boy looks at you could melt the ice.” “We’re being professional,” Emma insisted. “Nothing’s happening until the divorce is final.” “Smart.” Franklin nodded approvingly. “But difficult, I imagine.” On the ice, Jack took a stupid penalty, cross-checking an opponent well away from the play. The referee sent him to the box for two minutes. “Very difficult,” Emma agreed, watching the Blades scramble to kill the penalty Jack had caused. “For everyone.” By the third period, the Blades were down 3-1, and Jack had been benched for the last ten minutes. The crowd was restless, with scattered boos whenever Jack appeared on the Jumbotron. “This is getting ugly,” Franklin murmured. Emma couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. Jack’s world was unraveling in front of twenty thousand fans. Whatever he’d done, this public humiliation was painful to watch. Her phone buzzed—a text from Alek: Coach pulled him for the rest of the game. “Equipment issue” is the official story. She didn’t reply. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t cross the careful boundaries they’d established. After the game—a 4-1 loss—Franklin’s driver took her home. As Emma rode the elevator to her apartment, she tried not to think about Jack’s face when the coach had benched him, or the way Alek had looked at her across the conference table, or how three weeks felt like an eternity. The elevator doors opened to her floor, and Emma froze. Jack sat on the floor outside her apartment door, still in his game-day suit, his tie loosened and hair disheveled. “Jack? What are you doing here?” He looked up, and Emma was shocked by how terrible he looked—eyes bloodshot, face haggard. “I need to talk to you.” His voice was rough. “Please, Em.” Every instinct told her to send him away. But something in his expression—vulnerability she hadn’t seen in years—made her hesitate. “It’s late, Jack.” “I know. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” He stood unsteadily. “Five minutes. That’s all I need.” Against her better judgment, Emma unlocked her door. “Five minutes.” Jack followed her inside, looking around the apartment he’d never visited. “Nice place. Very... you.” “What do you want, Jack?” Emma set down her purse, keeping the kitchen island between them. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry about the other night. At Volkov’s office. I was out of line.” “Yes, you were.” “I just—” He swallowed hard. “Seeing you with him hit me harder than I expected.” Emma crossed her arms. “You’re with Veronica now. Why do you care who I’m with?” “That’s the thing.” Jack sank onto a barstool. “Veronica left me. After tonight’s game. Said she ’doesn’t date benchwarmers.’” “I’m sorry to hear that,” Emma said, surprised to find she actually meant it. “No you’re not,” Jack laughed bitterly. “But thanks for pretending.” They lapsed into awkward silence. Emma glanced at her watch. “Your five minutes are almost up.” “Right.” Jack straightened. “The reason I came... Coach says there’s talk of trading me. Is that true?” “How would I know?” “Don’t play dumb, Em. You’re involved with Volkov. He makes those decisions.” “I’m not ‘involved’ with anyone,” Emma said carefully. “And even if I were, I wouldn’t discuss team business with you.” Jack’s expression hardened. “So it’s true.” “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t have to.” He stood, anger replacing vulnerability. “They’re pushing me out because of you.” “No, Jack. If you’re being traded, it’s because you’re playing like garbage and alienating your teammates.” The words came out sharper than she intended. Jack flinched. “Wow. Tell me how you really feel.” “I feel tired, Jack. It’s late, and we’re done here.” Emma moved toward the door. “If you’re worried about your career, talk to your agent, not your ex.” Jack didn’t move. “What happened to us, Em? We used to be a team.” “You threw divorce papers in my face, remember?” Emma’s voice cracked slightly. “Teams don’t do that.” Before Jack could respond, a knock came at the door. Emma opened it to find Alek standing there, concern evident on his face. “Everything okay?” he asked, eyes darting past her to Jack. “I saw his car outside and wanted to make sure you were alright.” Jack’s face darkened. “Checking up on your girlfriend, Volkov?” “Making sure a player who’s been drinking isn’t harassing staff,” Alek replied evenly. “I was just leaving.” Jack brushed past them both, pausing in the doorway. “This conversation isn’t over, Em.” “Yes,” Emma said firmly, “it is.” As Jack stalked to the elevator, Emma caught Alek watching her with a question in his eyes. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “He just wanted to talk.” “About?” “Trade rumors.” Alek’s jaw tightened. “Nothing’s decided yet.” “But something’s being considered,” Emma concluded. “You didn’t tell me.” “I was going to. Tomorrow.” He glanced down the hall where Jack had disappeared. “Professionally.” Emma nodded, suddenly exhausted. “Thank you for checking on me.” “Always.” Alek took a step back. “Three more weeks.” “Three more weeks,” she echoed. As she closed the door, Emma leaned against it, closing her eyes. Three more weeks of this delicate dance. Three more weeks of Jack’s unraveling. Three more weeks before she could claim her name, her role, and maybe—just maybe—a second chance at happiness.