Chapter 1 

 

Genevieve 

 

I exhaled, dragging my suitcase across the floor of my dark, empty apartment.

It was beautifully designed—so much so, it looked more like a magazine spread than an actual home. But that was the point. It was always social-media ready, which helped with the gig. I could film anywhere—from the kitchen to the bedroom—and it always looked polished.

The space was part living area, part studio. All white and golds, soft pinks, oversized floral prints with lush green leaves and warm yellow accents. Gorgeously feminine. And I liked it that way.

My latest ex constantly complained there was no space for him—and he wasn’t wrong. I’d made a few adjustments here and there, but the truth was… I didn’t want to change my style for him.

My phone rang, and I picked up.

Elliott.

My best friend—and technically, my ex. We’d “dated” in grade school. Third grade. I’d known him forever.

“How was Mexico?” he asked.

I’d just gotten back from a corporate retreat in Cancun—sun, surf, bikinis, and bellinis. Heaven.

 And also, The Allyship Audit.

I’d been brought in to speak with a group of travel agency execs recently tagged online for racist and tone-deaf behavior. Their third scandal this year.

“Oh, you know—sun, surf, and a bunch of smarmy travel agents. What’s to complain about?” I said, chuckling as I slipped off my shoes and turned on a few lamps.

Gold. Sleek. Modern. Soft lighting. I was religious about good lighting. Overhead lights? Absolutely not it.

“I bet,” he said. “When are you coming to Toronto? I miss you. We haven’t seen each other in a good long while.”

It had been a while. A few years, maybe.

We stayed in touch—constant phone calls, endless text threads, ridiculous memes, the occasional video chat, and the odd trip when our schedules aligned or we happened to land in the same city.

“Gonna make it worth my while?”

Elliott and I never dated beyond third grade. 

We’d almost kissed once. We were on our way home from the Christmas break in university in a snowstorm. We took the backroads from Toronto to Barrie and it was a white out. We hit the ditch and we had to cuddle up in the back seat to keep warm until a tow arrived which was hours. He leaned in just as someone came to see if we were alright. There were other times but that was the closest we ever got. 

Any chance of something more ended in second year, after he slept with one of my classmates and friends, Taylor, following a rip-roaring night at a campus social.

It wasn’t really a conversation.

 More of a “what the actual fuck” from me and a “I didn’t think it mattered” from him.

And I started seeing Sean shortly after. First to make him jealous and then because we had fun together. 

I never fully shook the feelings of Elliott, if I was honest.

Now he was seeing someone—Piper something. A sports journalist. Brunette. Bob cut. Big eyes. Thin. Perfectly on-brand.

“Come on, Gen. Come to Toronto. You can stay at my place, visit the city. I’ll even get you into a game.”

I’d just broken up with Tyler. Six months together, give or take. Before that, I ended a six-year relationship with my college sweetheart, Sean. 

Tyler, was sweet. I did appreciate him. But I was never really in it. I wanted to make time. I just wasn’t willing to give up the life I’d fought for–not for him.

That life? It meant movement. Airports, boardrooms, speaking gigs. Going to 25 conferences a year. Technically, I lived in Vancouver. But nothing in my life felt permanent these days.

“I dunno, Palmer,” I said, laughing softly. “You know how much I love hockey…”

Elliott was the assistant medical doctor for the Toronto Ice Hawks, a solid NHL team. No Cups in decades, but their fanbase? Religiously loyal.

“Michaelson, I’m not taking no for an answer,” he said. “You need to take a damn break. You’ve got a bit of time—come to my city.” 

“If I do come,” I said, “I’m staying in a hotel.”

“What?”

“I’m not crashing in your tiny one-bedroom in Roncesvalles.”

“Like your shoebox in Yaletown is any better, Michaelson.”

“It’s not. But I’ll be staying in a hotel just the same, Palmer.”

After my big breakup with Sean—and not long after losing my first major corporate gig out of university—I wrote a book.

It was about that entire experience and more.

​

 No Seat? Bring a Folding Chair: Field Notes from the Frontlines of Inclusion.

 

That book started everything. I built a platform. A brand.

 I started speaking out on the topics that mattered—

 Inclusivity in the workplace.

 Safe spaces in corporate environments.

 Making room for female leadership—in society, in business, in life.

 Collaboration, community, and change.

Then I expanded.

I wrote another book: Not Asking Nicely.

It was about owning your journey, building the life you want, understanding yourself enough to bring your A-game. I covered everything from practical habits and mindset shifts to productivity and purpose.

That book took off.

 I was everywhere.

The podcast came next—named after the book, of course. I became a motivational speaker, an influencer, a high-profile consultant for major companies scrambling to fix their public-facing failures in diversity and equity.

Then came workshops. Talks.

 More books. Now? I was working on my fifth.

Successful, yes. But none of it happened by accident. 

I was booked, busy, and thriving because I was working my ass off.

So, flying out to see my oldest, dearest friend—just weeks after breaking up with a guy I moderately liked and wrapping a five day corporate workshop for SunLight Travels?

Sounded like exactly the reprieve I needed.

“Fine, stay in your swanky hotel with all that big influencer money,” he relented. “Just get your ass here so we can catch up. We’ll squeeze in some fun.”

I’d grown up just north of the city, in Barrie. Elliott and I both went to Ryerson—he studied kinesiology, then moved on to med school. I majored in gender studies, worked as a paralegal at a major firm in Toronto for a hot minute, and then made the move to Vancouver.

Toronto was our old stomping ground. 

 We’d made the most of our university years there—too many memories to count.

But it was early November, which meant Toronto was about to be cold as hell.

The kind of cold where the wind off Lake Ontario could slice through steel.

“It’s gonna be cold. I’d rather not subject myself to the extreme weather conditions of Ontario.”

 “Then bring a jacket,” Elliott said.

________

 

I was sitting in my apartment, wine glass in hand, the sound of the city buzzing outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. My laptop was open, notes scattered in front of me as I worked on refining a few concepts for an upcoming keynote—adjusting, trimming, expanding. I was in the zone. 

Until my phone lit up with a name I hadn’t seen in a while.

 Barbara Foster.

We were in the same industry—sort of. Where I was a freelancer, she ran a firm. Full team. Staff, speakers, contracts, scale. She’d tried to recruit me in the early days, back when I still needed the credibility. Now? I was slightly bigger than her. I had more reach, more press, and I preferred the freedom of running solo. 

 I didn’t need to be tied down to someone else’s brand.

“Hey Barbara,” I said, eyes still on my computer screen.

“Genevieve,” she breathed, sounding flustered. “It’s been too long. How are you?”

“I’m good. You?”

“I’d be better if I hadn’t just gotten a call that my mother had a freaking stroke. I need to fly to Baltimore tonight. And... I need a huge fucking favor.”

My eyebrows lifted.

 It wasn’t every day that a woman who’d been on GMA, The View, and every major business podcast this side of the hemisphere called me begging for a favor. I straightened a little. 

“What do you need?” I asked, brain already spinning.

“I have a major contract with the Vancouver Vortex. I was supposed to run it myself. My staff is fully booked, and now that I need to get to my mother—I’m begging you to take it on, Genevieve. As one of my team.”

I blinked.

 That was huge. Massive.

“What are the terms?”

“You’ve heard about the GM scandal?”

“Bits and pieces,” I said. “He was groping staff, throwing drug-fueled parties, making crude comments in meetings—real old-boys-club nonsense.”

“Exactly. They fired him and brought in a cleaner, younger GM—he’s trying to turn the ship around. Wants a full-scale inclusivity audit and leadership workshops. Before-and-after assessments. The whole package. He wants to show, not just tell.”

“Smart move,” I admitted.

“It was my advice,” she said, not shy about the credit.

“But now you can’t deliver because of your mom.”

“Yes.” Her voice softened. “And I hate even making this call, but I wouldn’t if I weren’t desperate.”

“What about Shanna?”

“She’s tied up with Telecoms up in Anchorage. Thomas is deep into a major gig in the UK. I’ve got no one available to take this on right now. I’d have to push everything back by months—and Theo Vaughn doesn’t want to wait.”

“Fuck.”

“Genevieve,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I need you. Name your terms.”

I exhaled slowly.

 Three weeks was a long time. I wasn’t a full-time consultant—I did speaking engagements, keynotes, five day workshops at most. Hit-and-run style.

 This would be a whole different thing.

“Fifty percent,” I said flatly.

“Twenty-five,” she shot back without hesitation.

I laughed.

 “That’s criminal, Barb. And you know it.”

“I’d owe you one. A real one.”

“Barb, I’m literally working on material right now about time and energy economics. One of the key pillars is not giving more than you can afford. And right now? I only have so much to give.”

“Damn,” she muttered. “That’s good. Care to share more so I can steal it?”

“I will not,” I said with a grin. “Forty. No favors owed.”

She was quiet for a second. Then:

 “Thirty-five. But this is a one-time deal. If you ever want to work with me again, we renegotiate properly.”

“I’m not signing with your firm, Barb,” I said evenly. “But I’ll cover your ass this one time—and make it worth my while. Forty.”

"Fine. Done."

I took a breath, already mentally rearranging flights, bumping a few lesser gigs, calculating the hours I’d need to claw back from an already packed schedule.

This was a big contract. High-profile. High stakes. And now it was mine.

“I’ll have my assistant send over the details and paperwork first thing next week,” Barbara said. “The work starts on the 17th—two weeks from now, give or take. Make it fit.”

“I’m on it,” I replied, then ended the call.

 

————

 

Before I knew it, I was on a plane across the country.

 I booked the flight online and flew out the next morning.

That night alone in my apartment was quiet.

 Too quiet.

At one point, I even caught myself thinking I should get a cat—and that’s when I knew:

 I needed to get out of town more than I’d admitted.

Ever since Sean, it had been hard to keep my feet in one place for too long.

 Staying still meant I’d have to actually sit with everything. Think about it.

 And I wasn’t ready for that.

So I kept moving.

Because as long as I was moving, it felt like I was moving forward—Not being dragged backward into the past.

When I thought too long, the voices crept in.

 The naysayers. The doubters. The ones who wanted me quiet.

​

“Genevieve, you’re always going on and on about this.”

 “This isn’t a battle you need to fight.”

 “You sound like one of those broken-record granola white women—too many beads, too many flowy shawls.”

 “No one cares this much.”

 “Didn’t this go out of style in 2020?”

​

I exhaled as the plane began to descend, my gaze fixed on the city below.

 The CN Tower was lit up in blue. The lake stretched out like black ink. The city glittered under a light dusting of snow—like someone had poured sugar over steel and glass.

Vancouver sat on the Pacific. It rarely snowed there. It just rained. Constantly. Everything was damp, the air always heavy with moisture.

Toronto was crisp. Cold. Bitter in the winter months.

 The kind of cold that cleared your head… or cracked you open.

My phone lit up as we neared the tarmac at Billy Bishop Airport on Toronto Island.

A flood of texts from Elliott lit the screen. He was en route to pick me up, get me settled—even though I’d insisted he didn’t have to.

My socials were bleeding red with notifications and DMs. My inbox looked like it needed another round of email bankruptcy. If you emailed me in the last two weeks, I didn’t see it. Try again.

I had a personal assistant—Avery. Smart. Savvy. Twenty-five and somehow more organized than I’d ever be. She’d been in Mexico with me for the last event, so her to-do list was overflowing. I was hoping she’d start wrangling the chaos soon.

A few messages from her popped up. I took a couple of quick plane window shots like she asked, sent them along, then slid my phone back into my bag.

I exhaled, long and slow, as the wheels hit the runway.

Here's to one last quick break before the biggest gig of my career. 

______

​

“There she is.”

Elliott came up behind me as I waited for my bags. His dirty-blond curls were combed back, though a few stubborn ones still jutted out. His blue eyes were as friendly as ever. He pulled me into a big hug, enveloping me in his 6'2" frame — all muscle and warmth. He smelled like him: musk and applewood.

“Hey,” I said, chuckling as I pulled back, my cheeks flushing under his gaze.

“Jesus, Gen. You look freaking amazing. Been hitting the gym hard?”

“Yeah, you too.” I squeezed his bicep. “And you know I practice what I preach.”

“Clearly working for you.” He gave me another hug. “It’s been too long.”

He was right — we hadn’t seen each other in person in over three years.

And this? Real-life, full-body hug energy? It felt good. Familiar. In a way I didn’t know I needed. 

Elliott grabbed my suitcase when I pointed it out, and we headed out of the airport to catch a ride share. He filled me in on life in Toronto — the new job, the city, the team. He’d been with the Ice Hawks for about a year and a half.

It was his dream gig.

Elliott was always brilliant, even when we were kids. Not exactly a “jock jock.” He liked sports, played rec league, followed the big leagues with his dad. But he wasn’t aiming for pro — he knew his lane early. So he became a doctor. For a sports team, of course. And because he was Canadian, it had to be hockey.

I was sporty too — rec league everything: soccer, volleyball, basketball, a bit of hockey. But same story. I wasn’t going pro. I just liked the movement, the competition, the camaraderie.

Elliott and I spent hours on buses to tournaments in high school, cheering each other on, playing in different sports but always in sync. Everyone assumed we were dating. We never were. Just best friends. Always.

He rolled my suitcase beside him as we walked.

“How long are you planning on staying?” he asked.

I chuckled. “I have a workshop in New York next week. I’m here until Sunday.”

“Nice. We can do some damage in, what, four days?”

“You’re leaving next Thursday, right?” I asked, adjusting my purse and carry-on.

“Yeah. Away game coming up — I’m gone for five days.”

“Fun,” I said. “Where to?”

“Buffalo.”

I grimaced. “Not fun. I did a Visibility is Power workshop there. A How to Use Social Media for Good Without Losing Your Soul kind of thing for Kessler Health in Buffalo last year. There’s not a ton to do. But hey, kept me focused.”

“I bet.” Elliott laughed. “I’ve been a couple times. It is what it is. I mostly work with the team anyway — not a lot of downtime.”

Just then, a woman who’d been staring at me for a while finally walked over.

“Excuse me — are you Genevieve Michaelson?”

I nodded, offering a polite smile.

“Oh my god. I have all your books, and I love your podcast.” She stepped in, practically buzzing. “Can I get a selfie?”

“Of course.”

“No, no,” Elliott cut in. “Let me take it properly.”

“Would you?” she asked, handing over her phone.

“Yeah, absolutely.” Elliott took it and snapped a quick, well-framed shot.

“When’s the next podcast dropping, Genevieve?” he asked, handing the phone back.

“First Monday of every month,” I said. “You’ll love the next one — it’s called The Burnout Tax Women Keep Paying.”

“I cannot wait.” She hugged me again, then trotted back to her husband, clearly mid-explanation about who I was.

Elliott shook his head. “Just remember us little people when you're famous.”

“I have 11 million followers, Elliott. I am famous.”

“On your professional account though, right?”

“Yes.”

“God, I’m not that savvy when it comes to social media,” he said, shaking his head. “How you manage multiple accounts, write books, lead workshops, speak at events, travel and record a podcast? I’m behind on episodes, never mind finding time to make one. I’ll catch up—eventually. I swear.”

“You don’t have to,” I said gently. “You’ve got a demanding, high-profile career. Your priorities are where they should be.”

I smiled.

“My next book’s about time and energy economy—how we need to treat our time the way we treat our money: budget it, spend it wisely, and invest it in what actually matters. This idea that we can have and do everything? It’s a myth we need to stop believing. We only have so much to give.”

“Sounds like something I definitely need to read.”

“I’ll send you an early copy,” I said, nudging him with my elbow.

 “But seriously—just being in my corner? That’s more than enough.”

“Always, Michaelson.”

He glanced over at me.

 “And this trip—what does this fall under, time-economy wise?”

“Some much-needed letting loose,” I said with a grin.

We stepped outside, and the wind hit like a slap. I yelped as the chill sliced through my trench coat.

“Welcome back to Toronto,” Elliott said, grinning.

It was frigid. The kind of cold that made you question every life decision you’d ever made.

 I should’ve packed one of those lightweight puffy coats.

“Oh my God,” I groaned. “Get me to the hotel. Now.”

He chuckled and opened the door as the driver loaded my bags into the back.

 

​

​

​

​

 

Chapter 2

 

Kylar

 

The arena had that familiar blend of sweat, steam, and freshly flooded ice—a smell that always got my blood pumping.

The energy in the rink buzzed like a live wire—contained, but barely.

 Ready to tear it up and knock some heads.

The sound of skates scraping across the glossy surface echoed through the rink as the guys and I warmed up for a pre-travel scrimmage. We were flying out to Toronto tomorrow afternoon.

Away game.

 Had to make it count.

This year, we were the favorites—at least among Canadian teams. We had a stacked lineup. Our chemistry was finally clicking, and we’d made a deep playoff run last season.

But that only meant one thing:

 If we didn’t go all the way this year, management would tear us apart.

 Start over.

 New pieces. New lines. New system.

I could feel it in my gut—this was our year.

 It had to be.

“Ky, you still schtooking that actress from that TV show? What’s it called again?”

Someone called out from across the stretch circle. I didn’t look. I knew the voice—Griffin. Defensemen. Loud and nosey.

“The Rivalry,” I said.

“Yeah, that smutty romance show.” Griff said, shaking his head, beard flushed as red as his cheeks while he leaned into a groin stretch. 

“Classic! Killer Ky,” Erik—our rookie, second-line defenseman—grinned. 

I just shrugged.

Let them talk.

 They always did.

Gracie was from L.A.

 Gorgeous.

 We didn’t have much in common—didn’t need to. It lasted a few weeks.

 The press ate it up.

It wasn’t anything special.

 We saw each other now and then—mostly late at night, mostly at my place.

 Quick. Dirty. Over before morning.

She was a clean, convenient way to blow off steam between games and media cycles.

 But the whole thing hollowed me out, if I’m being honest.

I was done with it before she even left town. 

“Mira loves that show,” Griff said. “Says it’s her guilty pleasure. Wants to buy her a few drinks and get her to spill some spoilers.”

“Can’t. We parted ways.”

“‘Parted ways?’” Bobby repeated, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. “What happened? She want to know more about you than your jersey number?”

I grimaced and shook my head.

 “No. She finished filming. She’s back in L.A. now.”

 Flat. Factual. End of story.

“Shift focus,” I said, steering the conversation elsewhere.

“Fine. Let’s talk about Dylan’s latest. He’s pop-star adjacent now,” Bobby said, smacking Dylan with his glove.

Dylan grinned—wicked, unbothered.

 “It’s fresh. Just a couple dates. I like her. She’s fun. Great dancer.”

“Careful, man,” said Jared, our starting right wing. “You’re gonna get a song written about you. Got one past the goalie.”

He started thrusting his hips, hands on his helmet, belting out some off-key made-up song.

“Jesus, Jare,” said Blake, our left wing, smacking his helmet.

 “You’d start a fucking flash mob in the middle of the first period just to grind his gears, wouldn’t you? Degenerate.”

Jared nodded enthusiastically, still dancing and singing.

 “No, he wouldn’t. Ky would never allow it,” Erik said with a grin, glancing my way.

“And no one’s getting anything past this goalie,” Dylan added, heading toward the net. “Not this season.”

“Good man,” I said, deadpan. “And I wouldn’t be against a line dance in the changeroom.”

Jared’s dancing picked up speed.

Dylan shook his head. “I hope you end up on Sportsnet bloopers of the week, jerk off—”

“All for you, baby!” Jared called, finger pointed at Dylan as he skated away.

“Alright, boys—let’s get after it,” Coach Marshal barked from the boards.

I finished stretching and lazily glided up to center ice, mouth guard in my teeth.

Patrick skated up beside me, second line centre, a shit-eating grin on his face.

 “I’m coming for you, Killer Ky.”

“Good luck, O’Reilly,” I shot back with a smirk.

Mark, our assistant coach, stepped up to drop the puck.

 We fell into position.

“Ready?” he called out, scanning us.

 “Go.”

The puck dropped.

 Game on.

________

​

After a quick, dirty scrimmage, we rolled straight into full practice.

 Sprints. Line drills. Special teams.

 Sweating hard. Locked in. Dialed for game day.

We were in the locker room now, still damp, pads half-off, sitting through a debrief of Toronto’s last couple games, our travel schedule, and of course—the fucking controversy.

“Alright,” Coach said, standing at the front of the room, arms locked behind his back like a general addressing troops.

 “We all know that since Greenfield’s dismissal, there’s been a black cloud hanging over this organization.”

Greenfield.

Terrence Greenfield. 

 Our former GM.

Real piece of work. 

 Accused of multiple sexual assault allegations. Removed. Out. Gone.

He was replaced by Theo Vaughn—younger, cleaner, sharper.

 A guy with something to prove.

 He’d already started shaking things up behind the scenes. Admin changes. Staff turnover. Policy rewrites.

 So far, they were all for the better.

 But this—this was new.

“The new GM wants both the front office and the players to go through formal training,” Coach went on.

 “To make it clear to the public, the sponsors, and the league that this team is turning a corner. A professional’s being brought in—a three-week audit and a full workshop series.”

A low murmur ran through the locker room.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.

“This isn’t optional. I don’t want to hear even a whisper of disrespect toward her,” Coach said firmly, eyes sweeping the room.

 “She’s here to evaluate how inclusive and safe this environment is—for women and BIPOC staff, especially. Got it?”

My eyebrows went up.

 That wasn’t lip service. That was intentional.

“She’s a respected speaker,” Coach added.

 “Published multiple books. Runs her own firm. She knows her shit, and you’re going to listen when she talks. Vaughn wants us progressive, inclusive, and accountable—and we’re going to show him that we are.”

Everyone nodded.

Even the guys who usually didn’t say much.

When we wrapped coach walked up to me. 

“Larkin.”

I was on my feet. I turned. 

Coach, Doug Marshall, and I had a solid rapport. He’d been with the team for two years now—I’d been with the Vortex for four. I came up from the New York Sabers, and then before that the Detroit Dreadnoughts. If I’m honest, preferred him to his predecessor. Guy took a job with the Florida Chompers. Warmer climate for a fatter salary. For the love of the game, right? Yeah, hardly. Not his style. And he was all about style. No fucking substance.

Doug had a harder edge. More militant. Expected a lot, demanded more. And he was good. We were seeing results. He pushed, so did we. He sometimes went too far, to the point of bristling, especially when he turned into a rigid asshole. But, at this level, it’s rare to find coaches who aren’t at least a little quirky or stuck in their ways. They’ve all got their systems, their “this is how it gets done” philosophies.

But with a roster full of high-stakes personalities and nonstop pressure? Things veer off track more than most want to admit. And this GM scandal? It was rubbing Coach the wrong way from every angle. He wanted to distance himself from it as much as possible.

He was a stand up guy, personally. Family man. He had a wife, a daughter, a son, and grandkids. This mess didn’t just threaten his team—it threatened his reputation, his legacy. Maybe even the way his family looked at him.

“We need you to lead on this,” he said. “Get the guys on board. Make sure we don’t look like a bunch of assholes.”

“Yeah, I figured,” I said. “I’m on it.”

“Are you? Because you used to be my worst offender.”

“Not anymore.”

“Good man. Toe the line, Larkin. Outside the locker room, too.” He gave me a pointed look. “The Association’s cracking down—locker room talk, toxic culture, all of it.”

“I’ll handle it,” I said. “I’ll do my part. In the locker room, in the VIP lounges—wherever it counts.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He gave a short nod. “Game’s changing. We evolve, or we all get canned.”

I nodded once. Message received.

________

 

After practice, we had a press junket.

The usual setup—reporters packed into a room, cameras flashing, questions being barked out over each other like a competition.

Coach started things off, laying down the same lines he always did about how we were focused, prepared, and ready to give our best on the ice this season.

 Standard stuff.

Then came the inevitable questions.

The new GM.

 The culture overhaul.

 The internal changes.

Coach slipped into PR mode without blinking.

 “The organization's going through some shifts—positive ones. We’re aligning leadership with the values our players, staff, and stakeholders care about. We're proud of the direction things are headed.”

Right on cue, a woman near the back stood up. She was new. I don’t recognize her. 

 she was Tall. Lean. Black bob, sharp grey skirt suit. The kind of look that screamed “don’t bullshit me.”

“Is it true that Genevieve Michaelson is stepping in to pinch-hit for Barbara Foster?” she asked.

 “Barb recently posted that her mother has taken ill and that she’s unable to carry out the training with the Vortex. She mentioned her mentee, Genevieve, would be taking over?”

Coach raised his brows and chuckled.

 “That’s correct. We just got confirmation, actually. You people work fast, Jesus.”

A ripple of interest spread through the room.

 I felt it too.

I’d heard the name—Genevieve Michaelson.

 A few of the guys had brought up one of her podcasts a while back. Something about how the NHL still failed to reflect real-world diversity—especially for women and BIPOC communities.

 They didn’t love it. Bristled hard.

 But she wasn’t wrong.

The reporter gave Coach a tight smile that said she definitely didn’t take his joke as a compliment.

“Alright,” she said, flipping her notepad.

 “Let’s hand the floor over to our captain, Kylar Larkin.”

I stood and stepped up to the podium.

 There were so many microphones it looked like the thing might buckle under their weight.

 Flashbulbs popped like gunfire.

They started with game talk.

 Preseason prep. Team chemistry. Who was standing out.

I gave the usual—clean, measured, cryptic, just like Griff always said I did.

 Answers that satisfied but didn’t reveal much.

Then she stood again.

 The reporter with the black bob and slate-grey eyeshadow.

 Definitely hot. But sharp. And dangerous if you underestimated her.

“There’ve been rumors lately,” she said, “about you and Gracie Sloane. Any truth to them? Has the infamous Kylar Larkin finally met his match?”

I smirked.

“Infamous, huh? Wouldn’t go that far.”

She arched a brow. “You’ve been linked to some pretty high-profile women over the last few years—Faith Langley, Danielle Tamlin, Kylie Monroe, Sharon Kain...”

 “You keeping tabs?”

She shrugged. “Girl’s gotta have hobbies.”

I smirked, then gave the line I’d already rehearsed with the guys.

 “Gracie and I parted ways. I’m focused on the season.”

Click. Click. Click.

 The camera flashes kept firing, a strobe of chaos.

I leaned into the mic.

 “That’s all you’re getting on my personal life. Like I said—I’m focused on the game.”

Just another day in the circus.

​

​

​

​

​

 

Chapter 3 

 

Genevieve 

 

“Okay, so let’s actually have some fun tomorrow,” Elliott said.

 “Got a game this weekend, which means Thursday, Friday, and Saturday are pretty packed. But you’re coming out Saturday night, right?”

Our rideshare wove through downtown, making its way toward my hotel—the Royal York.

“No. Absolutely not. You know I’m not a hockey fan.”

I’d always been one of those girls who noticed everything—especially how girls were treated differently from boys. Sports made that difference feel enormous, obvious, impossible to ignore.

My little brother, James, was a damn good hockey player. Could’ve gone pro if he hadn’t been so small growing up. I was taller, filled out faster, and back in his early teens, people constantly told my dad, “If James had Genevieve’s height, he’d be unstoppable.”

He was unstoppable, for a while. He made it to university-level, but eventually chose a different path. Finance. Big job, big salary. Married at twenty-four, two kids by twenty-six. Meanwhile, I was twenty-eight and still carving out a career I loved. That was James—fast-moving, laser-focused. Once he wanted something, he went after it. And if he didn’t? You couldn’t make him want it.

Just like me.

We got that from our mom—Janice. Ballsy. Brash. Called you on your shit whether you wanted to hear it or not.

She pushed James to go pro. Did everything she could to make it happen. But he didn’t want that life. And I didn’t blame him. Hours of drills, getting screamed at, smashed into the glass, treated like a machine.

I spent years watching my brother play. So many weekends. So many cold arenas.

I played rec league, too—soccer, volleyball, a bit of hockey. But girls' hockey? It wasn’t treated the same. Not even close.

For James, it was pressure.

 For me, it was just fun.

Still, being around the sport for so long left a sour taste in my mouth. It represented a whole lot more than just a game.

Elliott cut through my thoughts.

 “Suck it up. You’re coming to the game on Saturday. I want you there. You’ll be front row, right behind the box. The team reserves those seats for family and close friends—best view in the house. I need you in my corner too, Michaelson.”

I sighed.

 “Okay, fine. When you put it that way, Palmer... I can’t say no.”

“Exactly. Then after—party.”

He grinned.

 “The players head out and tie one on. They always invite me. I almost never go.” 

“Almost?” I crooked an eyebrow. 

He smiled wide. 

“We’re going.”

“That sounds like trouble, not fun.” I groaned.

“We’re still in our twenties, Michaelson.” 

“Barely and we’ve got high-profile careers.” 

“We can afford one night of fun—and being degenerates.”

He gave me a look. A look I could never say no to. 

“Yeah, okay. Just a drink or two.”

“Balance, right?”

“Exactly.” I smirked.

“Tomorrow night—dinner? Somewhere nice,” he said.

I nodded.

 “Love that. That’s more my speed.”

“What are you in the mood for?” He tapped away on his phone.

“Japanese fusion,” I said after a pause. “I have a hankering for some good karaage." 

He tilted his head.

 “Done. I know a place you’ll love.”

I glanced sideways at him.

 “Do I get to meet your girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?”

“What do you mean, girlfriend? Question mark. Piper. Who else?”

He made a face.

“What?” I asked.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said. “We just... you know.”

I shook my head.

 “Didn’t you take her to Finn’s wedding this summer?”

“Yes, and we missed you there, Michaelson.”

“Yeah, I had the Women’s Empowerment Conference in North Carolina,” I said. “I was sorry to miss it.”

“He was sad you weren’t there.”

I rolled my eyes.

“You two do things besides… you know? She’s your girlfriend.”

“I mean, we go to dinner. Work events. We work out together. We see each other at work… sometimes.”

I shook my head again.

“Be in or be out, Elliott. Stop playing on the line.”

“I’m a doctor for a pro sports team. I keep my options open, I focus on my career… but I still want to get laid and have someone to go to the movies with. Someone to walk through the park with now and then.”

He looked at me, just a beat longer than necessary.

“Since my bestie lives across the damn country and refuses to stay in one place long enough to realize she might want more from her life.”

“Unfair.” I shot him a look.

“Hey, you started it with the situationship talk.” He shrugged.

 “Don’t analyze me if you don’t want some of that energy coming back your way.”

I rolled my eyes.

 “Fine. Fair play.”

Elliott walked me up to my hotel room, carrying my bags like the gentleman he pretended not to be. He lingered, still chatting, until I finally kicked him out so I could crash.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Working. I need to check in with Avery—my assistant—and go over some notes for the New York workshop.”

“Wow. Riveting stuff.”

I smirked and shook my head.

 “What about you? Game day’s approaching, so I’m guessing team practices, prep? Training? Getting ready to dominate the game? Who are you guys playing anyway?”

“The Vortex.”

I squinted at him.

 “Seattle?”

He raised a brow.

 “It’s Vancouver, and you know it, smartass.”

“Okay, okay. See you tomorrow,” I said with a lazy wave.

He smiled, then finally took off after giving me a hug and kiss on the cheek. 

“Glad you’re here, Michaelson.” 

“Me too. 

​

​

​

 

Chapter 4

 

Kylar

 

That night, Griff, Bobby, Jared, and Blake were over at my condo in Yaletown.

 Griff brought his girlfriend, Mira, and her friend Carrie—who was eyeing Blake like he was the special of the day.

I was steering well clear of her. As my best friend’s girlfriend’s best friend, that was a recipe for disaster. I had zero interest in getting myself tangled up in a mess like that.

We had a few beers, ordered from my favorite Thai place, and were gaming hard after packing up for our trip tomorrow.

“Dude, were you flirting with the new skirt at the press conference?” Jared asked, laughing as he leaned back into the couch, his messy chestnut brown hair sticking up like he’d electrocuted himself.

“No,” I said, smirking wide as I jammed the controller, trying to blast him in the face in War Fiend.

Griff howled as he got smoked—again—this time by Mira.

“Babe, you suck at this,” Mira said, not even looking up.

 “So badly.”

“How are you so good at this?” Griff groaned.

Mira used to be a figure skater. Nearly went to the Olympics in 2022, but blew her ankle trying a flip during training a few month before the trials.

“Had a lot of time on my hands while I was laid up with a bum ankle,” she said with a grin, sipping some overly sweet drink in a glass bottle. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she was in sweats, legs crossed on the accent chair by the couch like she owned the place. Her and Griff came by enough that she had the rights, honestly. 

Jared elbowed me. “Did she give you her number?” 

“She might’ve,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter, I'm not doing anything with it.” 

“You keep that press conference side hustle up, admin’s gonna have your ass in a sling. Especially with all the training they’re bringing in,” Blake said, turning away from his conversation with Carrie. 

“It’s done. I’m over it. We all need to step up and start acting like respectable men. I’ll be leading the charge,” I said. 

“Pfffft!” Jared said. “Yeah right.”  

“Who is this chick they're bringing in anyway?” Griff asked.

“Don’t call her a chick, babe,” Mira cut in, rolling her eyes. “That’s literally why they’re bringing her in.”

“What’s wrong with ‘chick’?”

 “It’s derogatory,” I said. 

 “Chicks are cute.”

 “So you wouldn’t mind if I called you something small and fluffy?” Mira asked, raising a brow.

 “But you are small and fluffy.” Griff grinned. “I’m huge and hairy.” 

Mira chucked a pillow at his head. He caught it, still laughing, as she started whacking him with the other. 

Griff, basically a linebacker, laughed and teased her.

I shook my head, smirking as Griff threw his hands up in dramatic surrender.

Something tugged in my chest. A slow, hollow ache I’d been ignoring for weeks. It felt like heartburn, but deeper—like something had been carved out and never put back.

“The training’s just PR,” Jared said.

“No, it’s not,” I said. “They’re actually trying to change the culture around the game. Because it needs to change.”

 I paused, then added, “And so do we.”

 “Really?” Bobby cut in, flashing that wide, shit-eating grin. “Killer Ky, is gonna change his evil ways and stop hooking up with puck bunnies, models, popstars and actresses? You’ve been getting numbers at every turn since I got here bro. You’ll be doing it until they make you retire.” 

I narrowed my eyes at him. “No. I won’t. I am making adjustments like everyone else.”

Jared groaned. “The training is just so they can prove to the media we’re not totally unhinged like Greenfield was.”

Everyone nodded grimly.

 More and more allegations had been surfacing. It was clear too much had gone unchecked for too long. The Hockey Association of Canada had stepped in and dethroned the guy fast—as they should’ve.

“God, that man was a walking atom bomb,” Bobby said. “Always knew there was something off about him. Said the weirdest, most inappropriate shit—constantly.”

“He’s an entitled white dude—what do you expect?” Blake said, grabbing the controller from Griff and jumping into the game with Jenny, Jared and me. “His family has serious money. They own that grocery store chain.”

“I swear he only became GM because they wanted him out of the family’s corporate hair—let him mess up hockey while they jacked up prices and stayed out of the headlines.”

He shook his head, thumbing the joystick. “Now he’s canned, we look like assholes, and this new guy—Vaughn—has to come in and clean up the whole damn mess.”

I paused.

 “Yeah, and the woman they’re bringing in... Genevieve Michaelson, she’s been taking the NHL to task. Has been for a while,” Bobby said. 

“What?” Mira and Carrie said at the same time. 

“He said…she’s busting our balls,” Griff said louder like the ass he was. 

Mira blinked, sitting up straighter. “I heard him, babe. I meant about Genevieve Michaelson. I fucking love her.” 

Griff gave her a look, “How do you even know her?” 

“I follow her on everything. Read all her books. Listen to her podcast. The episode about how the NHL is the least inclusive major league? Killer,” She added. 

“It wasn’t just hockey,” Blake said. “Baseball, too. She called out the whole sports world. But, mostly hockey.”

“Her book Soft Power was incredible,” Mira said. “Sharp. Insightful. Called out so much stuff people didn’t want to talk about.”

“Soft Power?” Griff repeated. He looked at Mira and smirked.

 “Babe, your power’s not soft at all. You can’t relate.”

Mira rolled her eyes and threw a pillow at him—again.

“I’m so jealous,” she said, still half-laughing. “Genevieve Michaelson’s the real deal. Built her platform after a crappy breakup and just kept going. Total powerhouse.”

“Yeah, she’s inspiring,” Carrie said. 

“Still… I don’t know how I feel about taking a workshop on inclusivity and awareness from a white woman,” Blake said shifting in his seat. 

The room quieted for a beat.

 Blake was one of the few Indigenous players in the league. From a community way up north in Nunavut. He had a right to feel that way. 

“Agreed,” Bobby said, nodding. He was one of the few Black players on the team. “We’ve made some progress, sure. But there’s still a long way to go—especially with gender stuff.”

“Fair,” Blake nodded back. 

“I mean… we’re already an inclusive bunch,” Griff said, glancing around like he could prove it by committee.

Mira groaned. “Babe, as the white ginger man in the room, you are not allowed to say that.”

“A white ginger dating a Korean,” he countered, grinning.

She gave him a look. “Still not a pass, babe.”

Then she turned back to the screen and obliterated Blake with a clean headshot.

He groaned. “Goddammit, Mira.”

She cackled. 

_________

​

That night, after everyone left, I was alone in my apartment.

The place was open and sleek—clean lines, dark finishes, and a killer view of the city. A massive TV dominated one wall, and the sectional took up most of the living space—perfect for watching game tape, gaming, or just zoning out. But the space felt too big when it was this quiet. The silence pressed in, and that feeling in my chest stretched wider, louder—demanding to be dealt with.

I climbed the stairs to the lofted bedroom and collapsed onto the massive king bed.

My phone buzzed in the pocket of my hoodie—notifications lighting up the screen. Tags. Mentions. Fans. A few headlines from the sports channels. And a number I didn’t recognize.

The reporter from earlier today.

She’d given me her number and I had given her mine.

Dumb move. Old habits. 

And that skirt, those sheer black tights, and that slash of red lipstick? Lethal combo.

Her name was Meaghan. She worked at The Globe.

Meaghan: I thought you were gonna hit me up. A girl has to make other arrangements if you’re busy, you know.

I stared at the message, that ache in my chest mixed with that old restlessness. That itch.

But the ache was out weighing it tonight. I wanted something. Something different.

In my younger days, I was a menace—played hard, partied harder, and fucked around harder. I never left a city without someone in my bed. All I wanted to was play, party, fuck and fight. Not in that order. But I’d just turned thirty, and honestly? The game after the game was getting tired. 

And something about the way she kept referring to herself as “a girl” rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe I was raising my standards. Or maybe I just knew that whatever I wanted… it wasn’t what she was offering.

But it always happened that way.

I told myself I was done, and they’d come around.

They’d always come around.

I cleared my throat.

Typed a reply.

Me: Make other arrangements then.

I didn’t know exactly what I wanted.

But I knew it was something different. 

Something new.