CH 1-10

Summary

“You invited a woman to your room and now you’re hiding from her?” “It’s not my proudest moment, alright?” Sports reporter Elsie Martin has three weeks left to land an exclusive story, but there’s one tiny problem—none of the hockey players even know she exists. Overshadowed by more experienced (and flashier) reporters, Elsie is stuck watching every scoop walk right past her… until one half-naked player stumbles into her hotel room begging to hide from a clingy one-night stand. Alex Reid isn’t used to asking for help, especially not from a woman he might have accidentally ignored that very same morning. But with nowhere to go and his teammates blowing up his phone with group chat humiliation, he strikes a deal with the stubborn, no-nonsense reporter: he’ll help her get noticed if she lets him stay hidden. What starts as a makeover mission soon turns into more than wardrobe advice and hair appointments. Because the more Alex helps Elsie shine, the harder it becomes to look away. And the girl he didn’t notice? She just might be everything he never saw coming. Perfect for fans of slow-burn chemistry, ridiculous hockey boy group chats, and chaotic hotel room encounters that definitely weren’t in the original career plan.

Chapter 1

**Please note** This is more of a sweet, cute short story. Not very explicit like my usual content.

PLEASE NOTE: Pucked into My Room is one book in a series. The books are not connected and can be read in any order. They all feature hockey themes.

The books are.

Pucking Forbidden

Pucking the Boss’s Daughter

Slapshot Awakening

Pucked Into My Room

Elsie POV

I’m trying; everyone around me can see I’m trying, but it’s not making a difference. Everyone pushes past me, every player looks right through me as if I’m not even here.

No matter how many games I attend, nothing ever changes. I’m always standing here, trying to capture their attention, and always failing. The players go straight to the other reporters, and me? It’s like I’m invisible.

I was given three months to speak with the players and find a story. Those three months are nearly up, and I don’t even have a simple greeting recorded.

People assume being a reporter is easy and straightforward, but they’re wrong, especially when others look right past you as if you mean nothing. Unless I’m willing to sell my soul to the devil, I think I’m officially out of options for getting noticed.

The players walk in, and once again, I’m left standing here with nothing. Reporters around me are busy discussing all the answers they’ve gotten, answers I haven’t. Sure, I could use the information they’ve gathered, but it wouldn’t feel right.

I have my own questions that I want answered. Frustrated, I shove my belongings back into my bag and leave. There’s still time before the game ends. Maybe I’ll have better luck later.

I head to a local café, order a drink, and sit down to think. Scanning through the players’ profiles again, I try to identify who might be approachable enough to talk to me. The problem is, none of them seem particularly accessible.

Everyone else manages to grab their attention, gets their questions answered, while I’m constantly ignored. I lose track of time, absorbed in reading about the players. When I finally glance at the clock, I realize I’m already late.

Panicked, I quickly pack everything back into my bag and rush towards the arena. It’s busier now, and I push my way through the crowds and other reporters to reach the front. Standing tall, microphone ready, I brace myself again.

This time, I will get my answers. The screams of excited fans tell me the players are coming. I straighten up, determined, and lock eyes on them as they approach.

“James,” I call out, holding the microphone towards him, but he doesn’t even glance my way. Instead, he’s already being pulled aside by another reporter. Perfect. I look towards another player and wave, hoping he’ll come over, but he doesn’t. Again, it’s the same story.

“Want my advice?” A guy standing nearby asks, looking down at me. I shrug, figuring advice can’t make things worse.

“What would your advice be?” I ask.

“Look more presentable. You’re not a known reporter, so no one’s going to notice you. Add to that the fact you’re completely covered up, looking like an eskimo, and the players naturally go to reporters who, let’s be honest, show a little more skin.”

I’m not about to use my body just to get an interview. That’s a crazy idea, ridiculous actually. Still, now I’ve got two options: sell my soul to the devil, or dress more like the female reporters here.

Glancing down at myself, I realize the guy isn’t completely wrong. I’m wearing a long coat that’s buttoned up, hiding my entire figure, and my hair is tossed into a messy bun.

No. I shake my head. “I don’t need to dress up,” I mutter.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “But if you want to get noticed, stand out more. Right now, you look like a schoolgirl trying to get an autograph from her favorite player, not a real reporter.”

His words hit deeper than I like, but I brush them off, turning away determined to prove him wrong. I begin trying again to catch the attention of other players, but it’s no use.

At one point, one of the players walks directly toward me, and I feel certain I’ve finally done it. But then he stops, greeting the guy who just gave me advice. They’re clearly on a first-name basis, laughing and joking.

“Alex,” I say, trying to grab his attention, but he’s too caught up chatting with the guy about some on-ice incident. I say his name again, louder this time. His eyes flicker briefly towards me, but then he’s right back in their conversation.

“Is this a joke? You heard me,” I say sharply. Alex finishes his conversation anyway and simply walks off. Asshole, fucking prick, asshole.

The guy beside me chuckles.

“Didn’t I tell you? You won’t get attention like this,” he says, pointing at me dismissively. “Anyway, I should go. I’ve got an actual article to write.”

I desperately want to trip him and watch him fall flat on his smug face. It’d be funny, ideal, even. But I hold myself back, because that’s definitely not the type of attention I need right now.

Staying here, I keep calling out the players. I stay after the bigger players have left and try to get noticed by the smaller ones, the ones who aren’t big names yet, but they even ignore me.

It’s as if they know I’m not well known, and their talking to me won’t benefit them. It’s frustrating, and to make things worse, I feel something wet drop onto my hand. Looking up, I watch as it begins to rain.

Great, this is just great. I can’t go home and say I failed to get anything at all, so I don’t. Instead, I stay here, despite the pouring rain. The other reporters leave, and I stay. Maybe it’s a crazy idea. Sure, it’s raining, but if there are no reporters, surely when the last few players come out, I’ve got more chance of getting seen?

Over twenty minutes later, I’m soaked, and not one looks at me. This time, they rush to their vehicles. I’m at a loss right now. What else can I do?

Chapter 2

Alex POV

The guys are happy. Well, when I say happy, I actually mean drunk. I can’t blame them since we won, so we might as well celebrate before heading back home.

I don’t even know who the woman sitting next to me is, but she’s quiet and constantly checking her phone. I’m trying to stay focused on what’s going on around me, but the club is loud and chaotic, and I’m desperate for an escape.

Standing up, I head over to the guys. “I’m going back to the hotel. Enjoy your night.”

They barely acknowledge me, so I just walk out. A few minutes later, I hear footsteps behind me and turn to see the same woman from before.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Going back to my hotel, The Harold,” she replies casually, shrugging as she walks past me.

Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed she was following me. “Look, it’s dark and I’m headed there myself. Walk with me, it’ll be safer.”

She stops, turning back toward me. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s just walking, right?” I offer, falling into step beside her.

We walk quietly for a while, but eventually, the silence gets too awkward. I glance over at her. “So, you were alone tonight?”

She smiles softly and nods. “I wasn’t supposed to be. I got stood up. My friend was meant to come out and watch over me during a date, but she canceled. Two minutes later, my date canceled too.”

Ouch, that’s harsh. “If he canceled right before arriving, he’s definitely not worth your time,” I say with a shrug, and she laughs quietly.

“I figured that out when they both claimed to be busy at almost the exact same time. Clearly busy with each other.”

Turning my head, I look at her curiously. “You think they both ditched you because they’re together?”

“We knew him, so yeah, them both canceling makes me think they’re together,” she says, sighing lightly.

She could be wrong, but given the timing, it seems possible. “That’s rough,” I say sympathetically.

“I wasn’t ready to go straight back to the hotel after all that. So I stayed out and drank instead,” she explains.

Nodding slowly, I smile a bit. “So, did your night get better or worse after getting stood up?” I’m still genuinely surprised both people didn’t show up.

“Better. I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?” Her smile grows warmer.

“I’m not entirely sure how I managed to make tonight better and not worse,” I joke lightly. Honestly, I’ve barely been sociable tonight.

“It beats glaring at unanswered messages all evening,” she replies playfully, and I nod, knowing she’s right.

When we reach the hotel, she follows closely behind me. I hesitate slightly, feeling a little guilty, but mostly sorry for her situation. “Want a drink? Nothing else, just a quiet drink?” I offer as we stop at the elevator.

She nods, smiling softly, and steps into the elevator beside me.

Getting to my room, I hand her a drink. She sits down, talking to me about how she and her friend are sharing a room here. I can understand her reluctance to return; I mean, I wouldn’t want to go back and possibly find them together either.

Although, you’d think they’d be smart enough not to use the room she’d inevitably return to. We talk for a while about hockey, and then she tells me more about her work. Rachel seems like a lovely woman, just…I’m not in the mood for anything tonight.

After two drinks, I decide it’s time to call it a night. “Look, I need to shower and sleep. I’ve got a long day of traveling tomorrow. Good luck with your friend, yeah?” I say as I stand and open the door for her.

She nods and smiles warmly. “Sure, thanks again for this.”

I watch as she steps out and walks away, then I close the door and head toward the bathroom. Stripping off my clothes, I step into the shower. Hockey is great, but the constant traveling makes a normal life nearly impossible.

Finishing up, I shut off the water, wrap a towel around my waist, and walk back into the bedroom. I freeze the second I enter.

“What the fuck?”

Rachel, who I just escorted out is sitting casually on my bed.

“Hey, Alex.”

“Out,” I snap sharply.

“No can do. Your friends told me I was supposed to stay with you all night and cheer you up.”

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. I breathe in deeply, glaring at her.

“I don’t need cheering up. You need to get the fuck out!”

“Not until I’ve done the job they asked me to do,” she replies sweetly, patting the spot next to her on the bed.

“Are you delusional? Do you honestly think I’m getting into bed with you?”

“Eventually,” she says confidently, leaning back even further.

“Leave before I call security,” I say firmly, pointing to the door.

Laughing softly, she sits up, and the sheets fall away from her. She’s completely naked. There’s joking among teammates, and then there’s whatever this is.

“And what will you say? A small, helpless woman is naked in your bed? One you like, according to your friends. They told me all about it, Alex. You like me but you’re afraid to make the first move. Virgin, right?”

I laugh. I actually fucking laugh. “They lied,” I snap back. This joke went way too far.

“Well, I’m still not leaving. I understand you’re scared.”

“You know, I forgot to brush my teeth,” I mutter, turning away quickly.

“Don’t take too long, or I’ll come find you.”

No, this isn’t happening. This is absolutely fucking insane. I grab my phone and immediately text the guys.

Zamboni:

Who the fuck is this woman?

Why does she think I’m a scared virgin?

How the fuck do I get rid of her?

PuckDaddy:

Holy shit, Zamboni is able to message! 😂

IceBreaker:

Thought you’d be busy losing your V-card, Cherry Picker 🍒

PenaltyBox:

Wait, she’s actually THERE?! We were joking…

Zamboni:

Clearly not funny. She’s naked in my fucking bed. HELP.

SlapshotKing:

Bro, congrats on your first hat trick 🎩

Zamboni:

Seriously?! She won’t leave. Who set this up?

PenaltyBox:

Blame IceBreaker, it was his brilliant plan.

IceBreaker:

Hey! It was PuckDaddy who told her you’re a shy rookie with performance anxiety.

Zamboni:

You said WHAT?!

PuckDaddy:

Relax Zamboni, chicks dig that shit. Trust me, I’m married.

SlapshotKing:

That explains so much. Poor Mrs. PuckDaddy.

PenaltyBox:

Tell her your stick broke in warmups.

IceBreaker:

Or you’re too tired from skating laps all night. 💤

Zamboni:

I’m going to murder all of you.

PuckDaddy:

Love you too, Zamobi! Now go protect your crease 😂🥅

SlapshotKing:

Just fake an injury, works every time.

Zamboni:

I officially fucking hate this team.

PenaltyBox:

Love you more, Buttercup 🌸

IceBreaker:

Good luck, Cherry Picker. Keep us updated. 🍒🍒🍒

“You’ve got thirty seconds, Alex, or I’m coming after you,” she calls loudly from my room. Great, because tonight wasn’t already bad enough.

I rush into the hall, knocking frantically on the door next to mine. Nothing. Locked. Fuck. I try another door, and by some miracle, it opens. All I need is five minutes. She’ll get bored and leave in five minutes, surely.

I slip inside the dark room, glaring at my phone as messages keep coming in, my teammates finding this absolutely hilarious. How the hell did they pick the most unhinged woman in existence?

Before I can get another step, I slam straight into someone. A woman screams loudly and immediately starts smacking at me.

“Whoa—stop, I need your help!” I snap, trying to dodge her wild slaps. She keeps screaming, completely ignoring my words. When she shoves me again, her towel drops, and suddenly my brain freezes, eyes dropping instantly downward.

“Pervert!” she screams, slapping me hard.

Shit, I stared. “I’m sorry, okay? Just stop attacking me!” I shout.

“Hey, where’d you go?” Rachel calls from the hallway, and panic sets in instantly.

“Are you—” the woman starts screaming again. Desperate, I cover her mouth and push her back against the door, holding a finger to my lips.

“Shhh, please,” I whisper urgently, eyes wide. “She’s looking for me.”

I hold my breath, silently begging Rachel to just leave already. After a painfully long moment, Rachel’s footsteps fade down the hall, and I let out a relieved sigh, stepping back.

That’s when pain explodes through my body, her knee driving straight into my groin. I drop to my knees, gasping. “Yeah, deserved that,” I groan out.

“Get out of my room!” she hisses, clinging tightly to her towel like her life depends on it.

“I can’t,” I plead pathetically, still hunched over. “She’s still out there, please help me.”

“You invited a woman to your room and now you’re hiding from her?”

“It’s not my proudest moment, alright?”

She glares, and I sigh. “It’s not like that. Just look!” I shove my phone toward her, and her expression quickly shifts from furious to entertained.

She glances up, barely containing her laughter. “Wait, are you actually a virgin?”

“Noooo,” I groan, defeated. My dignity is officially dead. “Can you just help me, please?”

“Get off my floor, Alex,” she snaps, but there’s amusement in her voice. I stand up slowly, wincing.

I pause, finally realizing something. “You know my name?”

She narrows her eyes, sighing heavily. “You seriously don’t recognize me, do you?”

Should I? My mind races, frantically sorting through memories. I don’t think I’ve slept with her. I’d remember her body for sure. I watch her carefully as she turns away, walking deeper into the room. I follow cautiously, sitting awkwardly on a chair, still racking my brain.

Did I stand her up? Is that why she’s angry? I study her carefully. Her dark brown hair is damp, cascading down her back, still wet from the shower. Her eyes are wide, green, and unforgettable.

Suddenly, she covers her eyes dramatically. “For the love of god, close your legs, or the towel, or literally anything!”

Glancing down, I laugh awkwardly, quickly adjusting my towel. “Look, I’m begging you, just let me hide here until she leaves. Please?”

“And why should I help you?” She folds her arms, giving me a skeptical look.

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” I reply instantly, completely serious. “Anything. Name it, and it’s yours. I’ll literally pay you to save me right now.”

Chapter 3

Elsie POV

Alex is standing in my room, still half-naked, looking at me as if he’s never seen me before in his life. As if he hadn’t completely ignored me just hours ago. Part of me wants to toss him straight back out, but his phone keeps vibrating in my hand, and honestly, the messages are hilarious.

His teammates really did this to him, and right now, he’s completely stuck.

“Can I have my phone back?” he mutters awkwardly, reaching toward me, but I twist away.

“Not yet,” I reply, smirking as I glance down at the screen again.

PuckDaddy: Has anyone checked on Cherry Picker? 🍒 Did the scary lady eat him yet?

IceBreaker: Maybe he’s just giving her a pep talk first.

PenaltyBox: Nah, he probably fainted when she took her clothes off. Remember, he’s a sensitive boy.

I burst out laughing, unable to help it.

Alex sighs, covering his face with his hands. “Just kill me now.”

I glance up, still grinning. “They’re ruthless.”

“They’re idiots,” he groans. “Can you stop reading?”

“Nope.” I continue scrolling, thoroughly amused.

SlapshotKing: Guys, seriously, maybe we went too far. Zamboni might actually cry this time.

PenaltyBox: Nah, he’s tougher than that. At least I think so. Alex, are you alive?

IceBreaker: Blink twice if you need rescue.

I glance at Alex. “Want me to reply for you?”

He reaches again for the phone, eyes pleading. “Please, don’t.”

Grinning mischievously, I quickly type a response:

Zamboni: Currently hiding in a girl’s room. I think she’s about to save me. Also, I’m definitely not a virgin, assholes.

His eyes widen, horrified. “You didn’t!”

“I absolutely did,” I laugh, handing him back his phone as it immediately vibrates again.

He reads the messages, groaning louder with each new reply. “You’ve just made everything so much worse.”

“You’re welcome,” I say cheerfully, folding my arms. “Now, about that favor you owe me.”

“Anything, I meant it,” Alex repeats again, his voice almost desperate.

“I want you to convince some of the guys to let me interview them.” I stare at him, waiting for his reaction.

“You’re a reporter?” His eyes widen in shock.

“I’m trying to be, but hockey guys ignore the shit out of me, so help.”

He shakes his head slowly and leans further back. His towel opens slightly, putting everything on display again. “Please cover up,” I snap instantly.

He chuckles and quickly readjusts. “Trust me, I doubt the guys would ignore you.” His eyes deliberately scan me from head to toe.

“You ignored me today, Alex, so yes, they absolutely do,” I reply coldly.

“No, that’s not right,” he argues, shaking his head.

Crossing my arms, I glare at him. “Yes, you definitely did.”

His eyes flick around the room before landing on my coat. I can see the moment realization hits him. “Shit,” he mutters quietly, looking from the coat back to me.

“Exactly. All I want is for some of the guys to answer a few of my questions.” I smile sweetly and wait.

“Yeah, see, the guys won’t do private interviews. Even if I begged, it wouldn’t happen. You’ve got to catch them after the game like everyone else.”

Is he joking? “I’ve tried that for three whole months,” I snap.

He pauses, considering his next words carefully. “No offense, and I mean this nicely, but how you look and dress when you’re trying to get our attention isn’t exactly…great.”

Again, this? “Surely if you came over and talked to me, they’d follow, right?”

He shakes his head, almost laughing. “Hell no, they’d mock me relentlessly if they caught me talking to the rookie reporter who dresses like she raided her grandma’s closet.”

My eyes narrow, and I continue glaring at him silently.

“Look,” he says, pointing at my coat. “I’ll help you, but that means changing all of that. You need to stand out. I’ll make sure they notice you, I’ll talk to you myself, and if you do well, maybe they’ll even invite you to one of the after-parties. Instant story material.”

I’m not sure I even want to change my style. Then again, I’ve dressed pretty much the same since high school.

“Think about it, I didn’t even recognize you,” he adds carefully.

Leaning forward, I raise an eyebrow. “So you ignored me today because of how I dressed?”

He nods unashamedly. “Yes. You don’t look like a serious reporter, or even someone who knows what she’s doing. Players avoid that because it leads to our words getting twisted.”

Great, so they’re afraid I’m some clueless rookie reporter who’ll make them look stupid? “Fine. What do I need to do?”

He leans forward, a smirk forming. “Where do you live?”

“You really don’t pay attention, do you? We went to college together, Alex.”

He tilts his head, confused. “Did you wear that coat back then too?” He laughs, quickly stopping when he sees my glare. “Sorry, that was rude,” he says, rubbing his face.

“So you’re local, right? Good, that makes things easier. When was the last time you had your hair done?”

My hand automatically reaches up to touch it. “My hair is fine,” I mutter defensively.

“No, it looks dead,” he laughs again.

Glaring at him, I lean closer. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll open the door and tell your crazy friend exactly where you’re hiding.”

“Whoa! Okay, sorry, totally inappropriate. I’ll help you, alright? We’ll give you a full new look, and when we’re back home for the next game, you’ll look the part.”

“So, I let you hide here until your friend gives up, and you’ll actually help me?” I ask cautiously.

“Yes, even if it means I have to sleep on your floor all night because she won’t leave.”

“And you’re completely sure you’ll actually do this and come talk to me in front of everyone, so they know I can be trusted?” I need him to commit fully.

“I promise. Deal?”

Chewing on my lip, I think it through. “I don’t know, it’s kind of amusing watching you run from a naked woman.”

“Please stop mocking me and just agree. Then check the hallway to see if she’s gone. Deal?” He waits impatiently, and I sigh.

“Fine, you have a deal.” We shake hands, and I stand. “I’ll see if it’s safe for you.”

Stepping outside, I notice a nearby door is open. Curious, I approach, hearing pacing from inside. Carefully, I peek around the door to see Rachel wrapped in a bedsheet, pacing anxiously.

“Are you alright?” I ask innocently. “I heard shouting, and your door was open.”

She rubs her face, nodding slightly. “Yeah, my boyfriend ran off.”

Boyfriend? Interesting. “Playing hide and seek?” I tease gently.

“He has to come back eventually. He left his clothes,” she laughs, shrugging.

“Maybe you should leave, then surprise him when he comes back?” I suggest.

“Oh no, I’m not leaving. I’m waiting right here, all damn night if I have to.” She sits stubbornly, crossing her arms.

I smile sympathetically. “Well, good luck.”

Turning, I head back to my room, finding Alex waiting anxiously. “Sorry, you’re stuck here. She’s determined to wait all night for her boyfriend.”

Alex groans loudly, burying his face in his hands. “Great. And as if tonight couldn’t get worse, you made my friends’ messages even more unbearable.”

Curious, I pick up his phone again and scroll through the messages, barely suppressing my laughter.

PuckDaddy:

Wait, hold up. Alex got rescued by a girl? You hired a bodyguard now, Cherry Picker? 🍒

PenaltyBox:

I thought he’d hide under the bed, not run crying to another room. Is nothing sacred anymore?

IceBreaker:

He says he’s definitely not a virgin. Sounds suspiciously like something a virgin would say.

I burst into laughter again, and Alex groans louder. “Please tell me they didn’t.”

“Oh, they did,” I grin, continuing to scroll.

SlapshotKing:

Guys, this is serious. Alex is clearly trapped. Should we send backup or more women?

PuckDaddy:

Send more women. Let’s overwhelm him until he admits he needs guidance.

PenaltyBox:

Hey Cherry Picker, blink twice if she kidnapped you.

“Your friends are hilarious,” I tease, unable to hide my amusement.

“They’re idiots,” he mutters, looking thoroughly defeated. “What else did they say?”

Smirking, I glance back down and read out the messages.

IceBreaker:

Can we officially call Alex “Princess” now? Feels fitting since he needs saving from scary naked women.

PuckDaddy:

Agreed, Princess Alex. Has a nice ring to it.

PenaltyBox:

Long live Princess Cherry Picker! May he someday find courage and pants!

PuckDaddy changed Zamboni’s name to Princess Cherry Picker.

I laugh so hard I nearly drop the phone, and Alex sinks lower into his seat. “Just kill me now.”

“Come on, Princess,” I tease gently, handing him his phone back. “Don’t let them get to you.”

He takes the phone, sighing dramatically. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“I really am,” I admit, still giggling. “Think of it this way, at least now you have motivation to fix my image. Consider it payback.”

Alex shakes his head, eyes narrowed slightly, but there’s humor lurking in his gaze. “Just wait until practice tomorrow; I’ll never hear the end of this.”

Smiling, I lean back, thoroughly satisfied. “Then you better make sure I look amazing, Princess. We’ve got work to do.”

Chapter 4

Alex POV

I’m not happy about this, the fact that I’m stuck in a hotel room, naked in a towel with nothing but my phone.

The guys won’t help. If I ask, I know they will just mock me and make things worse.

Elsie is watching me, and I know I look like an asshole in her eyes, and I admit I am. Yes, I saw her, yes, I heard her. There was no way in hell I would go near her, though.

The guys would rip me apart for it. The woman I saw today with her microphone trying to get a story isn’t the one sitting in front of me now.

“Can you stop staring at me?” Her words make me look up.

Yeah, okay, I was against staring at her body. My eyes go to the coat, then back to her. I look at her clothes, she’s got laid out, everything that is hers, I look at. “Are you a virgin?”

She chokes on nothing. “Excuse me?”

“Innocent question, you don’t seem like the type to have had the chance to lose it, or have found a guy that takes notice of you.”

Her jaw clenches. “I’m not a virgin, not that it has anything to do with you. Can you try to get your friends rid of her, please? Then I can get rid of you!”

Pouting, I lean forward. “Have you had enough of me already?”

“I’d had enough of you when you walked into my hotel room.”

I laugh at her words and pick up my phone. Ignoring the messages they have sent, I decide to try to get them to talk sense into Rachel so she leaves.

I grab my phone, still wrapped in nothing but a towel, and type like my life depends on it.

Princess Cherry Picker:

Can one of you please tell Rachel to leave?

I’m serious. Get her out of my room.

PuckDaddy:

Why? You worried she’s fluffing the pillows too aggressively?

IceBreaker:

She’s nesting, bro. You gave her hope. That’s on you.

PenaltyBox:

She looked very comfy last time we checked.

Said she’s settling in for the long haul.

SlapshotKing:

She asked if she could order room service.

We said yes.

I stare at the screen in disbelief. Is that a joke? Coach is going to be on my ass when he sees the bill for my room.

Princess Cherry Picker:

You talked to her again?!

Tell her I’m not coming back.

Tell her it’s over, game done, now she can leave.

PuckDaddy:

Too late. Damage is done.

IceBreaker:

Also… we may have sent reinforcements.

Princess Cherry Picker:

What the fuck does that mean?

PenaltyBox:

We figured she’d get lonely.

She’s got backup now.

SlapshotKing:

It’s a party, Princess. In your room.

Hope you left clean towels.

I drop the phone and stare at the ceiling.

“Oh my god,” I mutter. “They actually weaponized women.”

Elsie glances up, raising an eyebrow. “What now?”

“They sent more,” I say flatly.

“More what?”

“Women,” I deadpan. “They sent Rachel reinforcements. She’s hosting a social in my room.”

Elsie bites her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “That’s… bold.”

I blink. “They turned my room into a fucking sorority.”

“You know,” she says, “for someone trying to get out of something, you’re weirdly popular tonight.”

I don’t respond. I just grab the cushion behind me and scream into it.

Because this towel? It’s officially my last safe space.

“What did I do in a past life to deserve this?”

Elsie shrugs. “Maybe it’s what you did in this life?”

My eyes widen. “I’ve done nothing! Not to deserve this torment.”

“Ignoring me?” Her smile widens.

“Fuck…Okay, maybe I deserve it for this life as well.” I am getting punished for that, right? Just hours after she said my name and I dismissed her with a look, I’m being tormented.

“Look on the bright side, when she leaves, you can go back and get your clothes.”

“If,” I say. “If she leaves!”

“She has to; you check out at ten.” Elsie smirks. She’s getting too much enjoyment out of this.

“Something tells me she will stay there until staff throw her out. Then what? Do I get on the coach in this fucking towel?” I’m going to have to. My eyes widen. “That’s it, I’m doomed, I have to get on the coach in this towel. Social media humiliation for years, that’s going to be the viral picture.”

She laughs so much that she falls back onto the bed. Her towel moves, and my eyes drift to her legs before I look away.

“You’re not helping,” I mutter.

“No, but you’re making my day so much better.” She laughs and sits up. “Okay, do you want me to try to get them to send her away?”

Is she joking? “You?” You know what, how much worse can it get? They already know I’m hiding in a woman’s room, naked, in a towel. So maybe her trying can help?

I hand her my phone and sit beside her to see what she’s messaging. Something tells me she is going to humiliate me more, just as payback for me not speaking to her today.

She stretches out across the bed like she owns the place with my phone in one hand, and a devilish look in the other.

“I’m just going to keep it light,” she says, already typing.

That is a lie, she’s lying, I know she is. “That’s what arsonists say before the fire starts,” I mutter.

She hits send.

Princess Cherry Picker:

Hi boys.

Alex is alive, damp, and losing brain function.

He’s currently hiding in my hotel room, dressed in a towel and self-pity.

I suck in a breath and grab a pillow, bracing for impact. Why? Why would she say that? She was meant to help, not make it worse.

The chat lights up immediately.

PuckDaddy:

Is this what post-game conditioning looks like now?

IceBreaker:

We need footage. For science.

PenaltyBox:

No way. She’s real?

You sure he didn’t bribe a cleaning lady?

SlapshotKing:

Plot twist: She’s imaginary and this is just a towel-induced breakdown.

Elsie giggles and cracks her knuckles like she’s warming up for war. She types again.

“Oh God, save me,” I mutter.

Princess Cherry Picker:

He just said…and I quote…“I’ll have to live in this towel forever.”

What? No, I didn’t. I stare at her.

Princess Cherry Picker:

Also: “Do towels wrinkle? Because I feel wrinkled.”

I slam my face into the mattress. “You’re evil.”

“Correction,” she says, typing faster, “I’m efficient.”

I look at her in disbelief. She told them I spoke about towels wrinkling! What the hell, where did she get that idea?

The screen lights up, and I groan.

PuckDaddy:

Princess needs a juice box and a support animal.

IceBreaker:

I recommend a goldfish. Something emotionally durable.

PenaltyBox:

Tell her to check for fever. Emotional distress can present in dry humor.

SlapshotKing:

Or send him back to Rachel. Let natural selection take over.

Elsie grins wider. “You’re the most fun I’ve had all season.”

I groan. “I’m not a circus act.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re a towel-wearing fugitive hiding in a stranger’s bed. If that’s not a clown show, I don’t know what is.”

She types again before I can stop her.

Princess Cherry Picker:

He’s panicking about having to get on the team coach like this.

Wants to know if he can tape the towel for extra coverage.

Oh, she didn’t! My eyes widen, and she laughs even more.

PuckDaddy:

Tell him to use sock tape. That shit holds everything.

IceBreaker:

Make it a statement piece.

Add a belt. Maybe a hat.

PenaltyBox:

Oh god, he’s going to end up on Barstool, isn’t he?

SlapshotKing:

Already drafting the caption:

“When the vibes are off, but the towel is strong.”

Elsie collapses sideways with laughter. “They are vicious.”

“I warned you,” I mumble, defeated.

Another ping.

PuckDaddy:

Tell her we’re sending her a fruit basket.

And maybe a medal.

IceBreaker:

She’s earned it. She’s seen Towel Alex and lived to tell the tale.

PenaltyBox:

Does she do interviews? We’d rather hear from her than him anyway.

SlapshotKing:

New team hierarchy:

1: Towel Girl

2: Rachel

3: Zamboni

4: Alex’s left sock

I grab the phone and toss it across the bed like it’s infected. “That’s it. I’m logging off life.”

“You mean logging off your phone,” she says sweetly. “I still have mine.”

I freeze. “You wouldn’t.”

She pulls it out slowly like she’s drawing a sword. “Wouldn’t I?”

I groan into the pillow. “I should’ve just slept in a damn elevator.”

“You’re lucky you found me instead,” she says smugly.

Honestly? She’s probably right.

Even if she’s the one who just ruined whatever scrap of dignity I had left.

“Can you add me to the chat, please?” She smiles at me.

“No, and no. Oh, and in case those two didn’t work… NO!” Like hell I’m doing that.

Music comes through the wall, and I groan. They are having a party.

“Do you want me to check, or can I sneak in and grab your clothes? If a lot of people are there, she might not notice.” She waits and watches me.

“Finally, that’s a good idea! Go! Quick, grab whatever you can,” I say quickly.

“A sock, that’s all I can promise, and it might even be one of hers.”

Groaning, I fall back onto the bed. “You’re punishing me.”

“You ignored me.” She laughs and walks into the bathroom. When she comes out, she’s got a robe on. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck? Woman, you don’t need luck; you just helped destroy me more in a chat with my team members.”

She considers my words and nods. “True,” she laughs and walks out.

Sitting here, I wait, half an hour passes, and she doesn’t come back. Grabbing my phone I open the group chat.

Princess Cherry Picker:

The girl whose room I’m hiding in offered to sneak into my room and grab my clothes.

That was over thirty minutes ago.

She hasn’t come back.

The responses come in so fast, it’s like they were waiting.

PuckDaddy:

She ghosted you.

While YOU were the one hiding.

In HER room.

This is historic.

IceBreaker:

Left you in a towel and vanished.

Power move. I respect her more every minute.

PenaltyBox:

Check the window. She might’ve rappelled out.

Anything to escape your towel anxiety.

SlapshotKing:

Did you check the party?

Maybe she’s doing karaoke with Rachel.

Princess Cherry Picker:

I’m serious.

She said she’d grab whatever clothes she could and slipped out.

I think she might be held hostage.

Or worse…bonded with Rachel.

PuckDaddy:

Oh god.

If they team up, you’re DONE.

There’s not enough towels in the world.

IceBreaker:

Imagine them comparing notes.

“You know what he said to me?”

“He said that to ME too!”

PenaltyBox:

This is what we call karma, wrapped in terry cloth.

SlapshotKing:

Don’t panic.

Okay, no…panic. Definitely panic.

I slam my head back against the headboard and type one last message.

Princess Cherry Picker:

This is how I die.

Half-naked. Betrayed.

By towel and by woman.

The replies come in before I can toss my phone across the room.

PuckDaddy:

Put it on your gravestone:

“Here lies Alex. He couldn’t even escape in socks.”

IceBreaker:

Funeral dress code: bathrobes and shame.

PenaltyBox:

We’ll pour one out for you.

And by “one,” I mean a pitcher.

SlapshotKing:

Long live the Princess.

Taken by a robe-wearing goddess and a rogue party.

And I’m just sitting here, wrapped in a towel, wondering how the hell my life spiraled into a meme.

Chapter 5

Elsie POV

I step into his room, I don’t knock as the door is open. When I step in, I stop. It’s all women, just women! There’s not even one guy here.

“Did we keep you awake?” Rachel appears in front of me, still wrapped in a towel.

“No, I…” What do I say?

“Want a drink?” She holds out a glass.

I smile at her politely before taking the drink. “Thanks. This part looks…lively.”

Rachel beams, like she’s been given a medal. She’s clearly thrilled with herself. “Right? It was supposed to be just me, but then more people showed up. It then just kind of turned into…this.”

I glance around the room. There’s music, snacks, and glitter everywhere that it shouldn’t be. At least one girl is on the floor braiding someone else’s hair. Someone else is blowing bubbles out of the window. I’m not even going to ask why or what is happening.

“I love the theme,” I say, nodding at the sheer chaos. I’ve got no idea what the theme is.

Rachel laughs. “Oh, there’s no theme. Just trauma, wine, and a playlist titled We Don’t Need Men to Party.”

Honestly? Iconic. I sip the drink, not bad. Sweet…actually it’s too sweet. It’s definitely dangerous.

“So, who are you here with?” Rachel asks, refilling her own glass.

“Oh, I’m just… floating,” I reply with a vague shrug. “Was thinking of getting work done, heard the music. Then came out to check.”

“And saw a bunch of hot, half-drunk women and thought, yep, this is my scene?” She laughs slightly.

I raise my glass. “Exactly.” Can she go speak to someone else now so I can find his clothes?

She cackles. “Respect. We’ve been venting about exes, sharing horror stories, and someone—” she points to a girl dancing in the corner, “brought edible glitter. I don’t even know what it’s for, but I love it.”

Another girl waves me over, offering nail polish. “You want in? We’re doing blackout mani-pedis and emotionally scarring confessions.”

This might actually be the best party I’ve ever accidentally crashed. How can I refuse? I decide to sit down and tuck the robe tighter around me. “Only if I get glitter,” I joke.

“You get glitter and a sticker,” she says, already painting my toenails. “It’s a whole system.”

Rachel plops down beside me and tops off my drink. “So, no offense, but you don’t look like the usual puck bunny crowd.”

I snort. “Probably because I’m not. Not even close.”

She smiles. “Good. Honestly, the real ones are way more fun. I mean, not to brag, but I once threw a party on a team bus bathroom.”

I choke on my drink. “A bathroom?”

“There were candles. It was a vibe.”

Just like that, I’m laughing. I don’t mean to. I didn’t come here to laugh or like her or enjoy any of this, but Rachel is hilarious, the girls are unhinged in the best way, and for once, I’m not standing on the sidelines being ignored.

I don’t bring up Alex. I pretend I’ve never heard of him.

Because right now, I’m just a girl in a robe, getting drunk with a group of strangers in the room of the guy currently panicking in mine.

Somehow, I’m having the time of my life.

Rachel leans over and clinks her glass gently against mine. “So… confession time.”

I raise an eyebrow, halfway through a glitter-coated sip. “Yeah?”

“This,” she says, gesturing around the room with both hands, “was supposed to be a one-woman mission. Operation Cheer Up Alex.”

“Alex?” I ask, forcing just the right amount of confusion into my tone.

“Yeah, the hockey guy. Tall, broody, kind of emotionally constipated.” She pauses. “Hot though, right?”

I nod slowly. “Sure. If you’re into jawlines sharp enough to cut glass.”

“Exactly!” she says triumphantly. “His friends said he needed cheering up, and honestly, I was bored, so I said… Why not? Thought we’d hang, talk, maybe…” she smirks, “watch a documentary or whatever.”

I take a casual sip to hide my smirk, watch a documentary…Yeah, that’s why she was naked. “Very classy.”

“But no,” she continues, “I come out of the bedroom in a sheet and he’s gone. Just vanished. Houdini’d out of his own room.”

I widen my eyes. “Seriously?”

Rachel laughs, completely unbothered. “Left the lights on and everything. I thought he was in the hall, maybe needed air, right? So I waited. Then I waited more. And then I thought, screw it. If he’s not here, I might as well enjoy the minibar.”

“And… call for backup?” I nod at the crowd of glitter-drenched women currently playing spin-the-shot.

Rachel grins like the Cheshire Cat. “Damn right I did. If I’m gonna get ditched, I’m not doing it sober.”

She is playing this to the max. She didn’t plan this; the guys did. Still, I admire her for sticking with it.

I let out a genuine laugh. “I respect that.”

“He’s probably hiding in the laundry chute,” she adds casually, swirling her drink. “Or under the vending machine.”

“Do vending machines… have under?”

“Not important.” She waves it off. “What is important is that I ended up having a better night without him. This?” She lifts her glass. “Ten times more fun than awkward small talk and faked emotional vulnerability.”

Across the room, someone shouts, “Glitter shots or truth bombs!”

Rachel stands immediately. “Truth bombs, always.”

She points at me. “You. You’re coming.”

“Oh no—”

“Oh yes.” She grabs my hand. “Anyone who survives meeting me while I’m in a sheet deserves to suffer like the rest of us.”

Just like that, I’m being pulled into a circle of chaos, glitter, confessions, and laughter, while the guy she came here for is hiding one floor down, probably panicking that I got kidnapped.

He’s fine.

I, on the other hand, might be drunk by accident and covered in edible glitter by midnight. This is absolutely not how I thought my night would go, and I’m kind of loving it.

We sit in a wonky circle on the floor, surrounded by half-empty bottles, a bowl of nail polish, and someone’s purse that’s doubling as a snack holder.

Rachel raises a hand dramatically. “Truth bombs, the rules are no skipping, no crying and certainly no emotional damage lawsuits later.”

A chorus of cheers follows, along with someone yelling, “Let’s ruin friendships!”

The first girl confesses she once dated two brothers at the same time. The second admits she accidentally set a toaster on fire by trying to reheat garlic bread wrapped in tinfoil. By the third round, a girl’s crying from laughing too hard and Rachel is mid-rant about a guy who sent her a PowerPoint of reasons they shouldn’t break up.

“My favorite slide,” Rachel says, wiping a tear, “was titled: ‘Our potential as a brand.’”

The circle loses it.

“My turn,” someone says, pointing at me. “Truth bomb. Most embarrassing thing you’ve done in front of a guy.”

Oh god.

“Pass,” I say instantly, shaking my head.

Rachel gasps dramatically. “No passes!”

“Fine,” I say, putting on my best innocent face. “I once dropped a microphone on a player’s foot while trying to interview him. He limped away, and I never got the quote.”

That gets some sympathetic groans, a few snorts, and a toast in my honor.

Hours pass and I’m drunk, I’m surprised I’m even able to stand. It’s chaos. Glorious, slightly sticky chaos, but then I remember why I came here in the first place, and why Alex is probably curled in the fetal position in my room.

I slip out of the room under the guise of a bathroom break, shutting the door quietly behind me. No one notices, Rachel’s too busy trying to talk someone into doing a glitter shot off a spoon.

Going into the bedroom, I head toward the corner where I can see a pile of things. Alex’s stuff. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. Pants, boxers, dignity. Anything that might salvage what little he has left.

I crouch down and start searching, but there’s nothing. Not really.

Just one thing. A T-shirt. His game-day shirt, actually. White, fitted, cocky little logo on the chest. I recognize it from the media photos. I grab it, relieved. One thing. I can work with that.

Then I hold it up, and stare. It’s completely wrecked.

There’s glitter everywhere. Not like a little bit, it’s like someone weaponized it.

Across the chest, scrawled in bold, permanent marker:

PARTY PRINCESS

TEAM RACHEL 4EVER

I blink once and then again before I choke on a laugh and slap a hand over my mouth to muffle it.

This is… magnificent. I fold the shirt carefully, like it’s a priceless artifact from a civilization powered entirely by chaos, and tuck it under my arm.

One shirt. That’s all he’s getting. I swing by the actual bathroom for cover, splash my face to kill the grin, not that it works. I’m too drunk for this.

I should go back to my room. Instead, I make sure the t-shirt is hidden and go back through to the women and decide to drink more.

Chapter 6

Alex POV

I give up waiting to be saved. Instead, I open Elsie’s mini bar and drink a lot. I ignore my phone as I know the team won’t help me. Instead, I drink away my frustrations and sadness.

What else can I do? I can’t leave this room as I have no clothes. So all I can do is drink, and drink more, and drink even more.

It hits 2 am, and I’m drunk and she hasn’t come back. I feel like she left me to suffer.

Sleep comes hard and fast, dragging me under like I’ve been running a marathon I never trained for. My limbs are heavy, my head numb, and the world fades into the kind of silence that only comes after absolute emotional destruction. The room is dark, spinning only slightly now. My last coherent thought is that Elsie probably left me here to rot, and maybe I deserve it.

I don’t know how long I’m out for, but something wakes me.

It’s subtle at first. The creak of a mattress. The dip of weight beside me. My body doesn’t want to cooperate, still stuck somewhere between hungover and drunk, but my brain kicks in enough to register one thing.

Someone is climbing into the bed.

Confused, I crack one eye open and turn my head. The room is still dim, but there’s just enough light to catch the shimmer. Glitter. A lot of it. And not just on the fabric.

She’s covered in it.

Elsie.

It’s her. She’s crawling onto the bed in slow, clumsy movements, mumbling something that sounds like lyrics to a song and half-giggling under her breath.

She’s wearing my shirt.

My destroyed, glitter-bombed, vandalized shirt. The one that was probably sacrificed in some kind of ritual while I was passed out. It’s hanging off her shoulders, unbuttoned, doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she is, without question, naked underneath.

I sit up slowly, my head protesting every inch of movement. She flops onto her side and grins at me like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Hi,” she says, voice light and sleepy.

I blink. “What are you doing?”

She stretches, arms above her head, the shirt parting completely. My brain short-circuits. I look away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.

“Sleeping,” she replies, as if that answers everything.

“You’re in my shirt.”

“I borrowed it.”

“It’s not even wearable anymore.”

“They made it better,” she says, patting the glitter-covered collar with pride. “Look how it sparkles.”

She’s smiling at me like she’s accomplished something. Like this is a victory.

There’s glitter on her legs, her arms. It’s even on her face. I notice now it’s in her hair, and as I look closer, there’s even glitter in her ears. I don’t even know how that happens. Her skin catches the light in a way that makes her look like a very smug disco ball.

“I told you I’d get your shirt,” she adds, snuggling into the pillow beside me.

“You also said you were going to grab my clothes and come back. That was hours ago.”

“I got distracted,” she says, her voice already slurring into sleepiness. “There were glitter shots.”

“You didn’t think to bring pants?”

“You didn’t specify pants.”

I stare at her, and she closes her eyes.

This cannot be real. I am trapped while naked in a towel. Sharing a bed with a drunk, glitter-coated woman in my ruined shirt, which she’s wearing like lingerie.

The worst part? It’s only Tuesday.

Grumbling to myself, I roll over and give up. I may as well get some sleep, I can deal with my clothes disaster tomorrow.

The alarm blares, making me aware it’s morning, it’s loud enough to make my already aching skull feel like it’s cracking in half. I groan, rubbing my face and silently promising I’ll never drink again.

The moment I shift, I realise something is very, very wrong.

First, I’m no longer in my towel. I glance down and confirm, with a horror I can’t even begin to describe, that I am entirely naked. Not even a scrap of dignity left.

Second, there’s a body pressed against mine. A warm, bare, glitter-covered body. I look down at her, slowly, already regretting everything, and there she is.

Elsie. She’s curled up against me like I’m her personal pillow, one leg hooked over mine, an arm slung across my waist, her face is resting peacefully against my chest. Her hair is a mess, her cheek has glitter stuck to it in a perfect outline of someone’s lips, and she’s still somehow in my ruined shirt, though it’s barely covering anything.

I blink rapidly, trying to convince myself this is a hallucination.

It’s not, though; she’s still here. I blink again. Nope, this is definitely real.

Even worse, now that I’ve noticed it, I can’t ignore the fact that I am also covered in glitter. It’s on my arms, my chest, my stomach…everywhere. I look like a craft store exploded on me in the night.

I stay completely still, debating whether I can escape without waking her.

She shifts, which makes her push against my cock. She stirs slightly, and her fingers twitch against me, her leg shifts slightly, and her head lifts.

For one blissful second, she blinks up at me, bleary and confused.

Then she realises where she is and her eyes widen, before she screams.

“EW!” she shrieks, scrambling backward so fast she nearly knees me in the ribs. “Why are you touching me?!”

I jolt, instinctively covering myself even though we’ve clearly missed that opportunity by several hours.

“I’m not touching you!” I shout, as she slaps my arm and rolls the opposite direction like I’m contagious.

“You were holding me!”

“You were wrapped around me like a glitter burrito!”

“You’re naked!”

“So are you!”

We both freeze, staring at each other like deer in headlights.

She glances down at my bare chest, then at her exposed thighs, and then at the trail of glitter smeared across the sheets between us.

“Oh my god,” she groans, collapsing back onto the pillow and shielding her eyes with one arm. “I think I made terrible life choices.”

“You think?”

She groans again. “I can’t believe I slept with you.”

“We didn’t sleep together,” I say quickly. “We just… slept. In the same bed. Covered in glitter. While drunk. Naked.”

“That still counts as a bad life choice,” she mutters.

“I blame the towel,” I reply, pointing to where it’s crumpled on the floor like it abandoned me the moment I needed it most.

She stares at it, then at me and then at the shirt hanging off her like a souvenir from war.

“I’m keeping this,” she says.

I blink. “That shirt is ruined.”

“So is my soul,” she snaps. “Let me have something.”

Honestly, I don’t even have the energy to argue. “Keep it,” I mutter. I stare at the ceiling and sigh like someone who’s truly accepted defeat. Every inch of me is sticky, sparkly, and humiliated.

“I’m stuck,” I mutter.

Elsie groans next to me. “What now?”

“I’m stuck in this room, in this bed, in this… sparkle nightmare. I have no clothes, no dignity and absolutely no backup plan.”

She peeks at me through one eye, her hair a wild mess of curls and glitter. “I’ll try to help you get out.”

I snort. “You said that last night. Remember how that ended? You went to grab my clothes and came back covered in glitter, drunk, and wearing my shirt like it was a fashion statement.”

“It was a fashion statement,” she says without shame. “You could’ve joined us, you know.”

“With Rachel?” I sit up slightly, giving her a look. “The woman who declared herself my emotional support towel and wouldn’t leave my room?”

Elsie bursts out laughing. “Okay, that’s fair. She did start calling herself your future wife around shot number four.”

“And that didn’t concern you?”

“Honestly, I thought it was hilarious.”

She pulls the covers off and stumbles out of bed, grabbing her robe and shoving her arms through the sleeves with a dramatic sigh. “Alright, I’ll go get you some clothes. Try not to panic while I’m showering.”

“No promises.”

As soon as the door clicks shut behind her, I grab my phone off the nightstand and open the team group chat. I don’t even want to look, but I already know they’ve been having the time of their lives without me.

Princess Cherry Picker:

Still naked.

Now I’m covered in glitter.

Still trapped in a stranger’s room.

Thanks for the support, gentlemen.

The responses start rolling in instantly.

PuckDaddy:

Morning, Princess!

How was your girl slumber party?

IceBreaker:

The pictures from the glitter party were incredible.

You really missed out. Great lighting. Strong female energy.

PenaltyBox:

My favorite was the one where Rachel was sitting on your pillow in a crown.

You looked so peaceful. So unaware.

SlapshotKing:

Honestly, that’s on you for leaving your room.

Should’ve leaned into it.

Imagine the content.

Princess Cherry Picker:

Any chance one of you brings me clothes?

You’re literally in the same hotel.

PuckDaddy:

Bold of you to assume we’re doing favors after that tone.

IceBreaker:

Nah. You’re the glitter king now. Embrace it.

PenaltyBox:

We’re just trying to support your rebrand.

SlapshotKing:

“From benchwarmer to bedazzled.”

Coming soon to a motivational poster near you.

I drop the phone on the bed, face down.

There are moments in life when you realise who your true friends are.

This is not one of them.

Chapter 7

Elsie POV

After showing, Alex gave me a list of appropriate shops to buy him clothing from along with his card.

He really thinks I’m going to go searching for perfect clothes, from a perfect shop? He’s delusional.

I walk into the nearest clothing store, not caring about the bad smell, or the fact the light is barely on. Walking straight to the men’s clothing, I search through and find him some jeans in his size, then a t-shirt. Then I find him some shoes. Shoes, not trainers, nothing sporty, actual shoes.

The combination? It will look fucking stupid, but it’s what he’s getting. Standing at the counter I watch as she throws the items into a dark plastic bag.

“$67 please,” the woman mutters, and I scan his card before grabbing the bag and leaving. The walk back to the hotel is quick. I go straight up to my room.

When I walk in, he stares at me. “You’re done? How?”

“It’s called going into a shop, grabbing clothes and leaving again. You’re welcome, by the way.” I shove the bag into his hands.

“This is going to be a disaster, I think I might just wear the towel.”

Is he serious? I grab the bag back. “Go ahead, have fun, now get out of my room.”

His eyes widen. “Woah, okay, hand it here. Your dress sense scares me, that’s all.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my dress sense,” I argue.

He begins to dig through the plastic bag, with an expression that is pure dread, he’s a fool. I watch as he pulls out the jeans, t-shirt, and then shoes.

Actual shoes. No sneakers, no casual stuff, but stiff and uncomfortable looking does that even a funeral director would likely pass up.

He holds one up between two fingers like they are about to bite him. “What am I supposed to do with these? Tap dance my way to humiliation?”

“You’re welcome for saving you from another day wrapped in a towel,” I say, dropping onto the bed and stretching out with a satisfied grin.

He mutters something under his breath, dragging the bag into the bathroom to change. When he finally reappears, he looks… ridiculous. The jeans are fine, the shirt clings to him a little too tight in places, and the shoes clop loudly against the floor like he’s wearing bricks.

I clap slowly, watching him struggle to maintain his dignity.

“You’re evil,” he says, deadpan.

“You’re welcome.”

His arms cross over his chest, and he surveys me with a tilt of his head. His eyes narrow slightly, and I know that looks. It’s a look of a man who is plotting his revenge.

“Well…” he says casually, “at least now I’m dressed. Unlike last night, when someone decided the best place to sleep was naked…wrapped around me…clinging on like I was a life raft.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks before I can even fight it back. My back stiffens immediately.

“I didn’t cling,” I snap.

“Oh no? I’m sorry, but you definitely did,” he says with a wide grin. “You wrapped yourself around me like I was a five-star hotel mattress. Full body contact all the way. Hands, legs, glitter…everywhere.”

Opening my mouth to argue back with him, nothing comes out because deep down, I know that he’s right.

Groaning, I do the one and only thing I can think of. I throw a pillow at his smut face. He dodges it so easily, and continues smirking as he adjusts the hideous shoes.

I groan and throw a pillow at his smug face. He dodges it with a quick lean to the side, still smirking like he’s got the entire world figured out.

Instead of moving toward the door, he stays exactly where he is, crossing his arms and watching me like I’m some kind of amusing disaster.

“You know,” he says, voice light and teasing, “when we get back, you’re still stuck with me.”

I raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Stuck with you how?”

“The shopping trip,” he says, grinning wider. “The whole ‘make you look like a real reporter instead of a lost intern’ plan. Remember?”

I roll my eyes but can’t argue. “I didn’t forget.”

“Good,” he says, pushing off the wall and walking toward the bed. “Because we’re doing it properly. No giant coats. No depressing colors. And definitely no looking like you’re about to beg for an autograph instead of an interview.”

I grab the remaining pillow and threaten him with it.

He laughs and backs up a step, hands raised. “Relax. I’m not saying you have to show up in a bikini. Just… look like someone the guys might actually take seriously.”

“You’re saying I look like a joke now,” I accuse.

He shrugs, unapologetic. “You look like someone who forgot this wasn’t a school field trip.”

I launch the pillow again, this time hitting him square in the chest. He catches it, laughing harder.

“When we get back,” he continues, tossing the pillow onto the chair, “we’re going shopping. You’re going to let me help without complaining, and in exchange, you’ll get your interviews without having to survive another glitter party.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “And if I refuse?”

He smirks. “Then I tell everyone you cried in your sleep and cuddled me like a teddy bear.”

My mouth drops open, a rush of heat hitting my face.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I say.

He just smiles wider, that irritatingly perfect, smug look that makes me want to throw something heavier than a pillow.

“No one will want to speak to you then. So, we’ve got a deal,” he says, turning and finally heading for the door. “I’ll text you when we’re back.”

Before I can respond, he clomps out into the hallway, leaving me sitting on the bed, furious that I somehow let him win… again.

I don’t want to admit that I need his help, but I do. I’m drowning and I really do need his help with this. Grabbing my things, I leave, and go into the underground parking.

Home, then get ready for hell with Alex as I know it will be hell. Me and him, shopping together? Yeah, that’s not going to be easy at all. If anything, it will be a diaster waiting to happen.

Then when disaster does strike, likely him making me dress like a porn star, I’ll walk away and admit defeat.

Chapter 8

Alex POV

I walk toward the team coach with absolutely nothing except the cheap clothes clinging awkwardly to my body and the faint, horrible feeling that this is somehow going to get even worse.

No bag, and no dignity. Just a little extra glitter and shoes that sound like bricks slapping the pavement with every step.

The second I get near the bus, I hear it, laughter. Loud, cruel, and very much directed at me.

Liam spots me first. He’s leaning against the coach door, sipping from a travel mug, and nearly chokes on his drink when he sees me.

“Holy shit,” Liam coughs out, nudging Tyler hard with his elbow. “Look who finally escaped.”

Tyler looks up from his phone, takes one glance at me, and immediately starts laughing. He points at me like I’m some exotic bird on display.

“You’re still glittering,” Tyler says, covering his mouth. “Did you roll through an arts and crafts aisle or just lose a fight with a unicorn?”

Josh, standing a few steps away, lets out a low whistle. “Bro, those shoes. Are you auditioning for a tap-dancing competition later?”

Cal pokes his head out from the bus and snorts. “I feel like I need sunglasses to stand near you. That shirt’s brighter than my future.”

I flip them all off without breaking stride, muttering under my breath as I stomp toward the door.

Of course the glitter is still clinging to me. Of course the cheap shirt clings too tight across my chest, and the jeans feel like they’re going to split if I even think about breathing too hard. And of course the damn shoes make me sound like a wounded duck with every step.

This is hell…this is actual, living hell.

“Man,” Josh calls after me, shaking his head, “you had a whole glitter party and didn’t even invite us?”

“I didn’t have a party,” I snap, pausing at the steps to the coach.

“Oh, we know,” Liam says, grinning. “Rachel threw it. You just hid and cried glitter tears somewhere else.”

I flip them off again just for good measure and haul myself onto the coach, fully prepared to pretend this day isn’t happening.

Behind me, I can still hear them laughing.

“Next time,” Tyler calls after me, “at least bring us a souvenir. Like a sparkly towel. Or your dignity. Either one.”

I slam down into a seat halfway down the aisle and pull my cap low over my face, already regretting every single choice that led me here.

The coach rumbles to life under us, pulling away from the hotel as the rest of the team settles into their seats. There’s a few minutes of blessed silence where I think, maybe, just maybe, they’ll let me die in peace.

I should know better by now.

“So,” Liam says from a few rows behind me, kicking the back of my seat lightly, “who was your little friend?”

I glance over my shoulder, pretending not to understand. “What friend?”

Tyler leans across the aisle, grinning like he’s about to hand me my death sentence. “Come on, man. Rachel’s glitter party pics are all over the group chat. But there were too many women in those shots to figure out which one you ran off with.”

“Yeah,” Josh adds, laughing. “You disappeared and somehow ended up crashing with a mystery girl. That’s commitment.”

I shake my head, pulling my cap lower. “It was no one.”

Liam snorts. “No one, he says. Man dipped from one woman and hid with another like it was the finals of a relay race.”

Cal twists around in his seat ahead of me, grinning ear to ear. “Tag out Rachel, tag in Mystery Babe.”

The whole bus cracks up, even the coaches up front throwing us a few sideways looks.

I lean back, stretching out my legs into the aisle, and smirk. “At least I didn’t end up wearing a tiara like Josh did last year.”

Josh throws a wadded-up napkin at me, missing by a mile. “That was a dare, you jackass. You voluntarily glitter-bombed yourself!”

“I didn’t voluntarily glitter anything,” I protest. “I was attacked by environmental hazards.”

“You got tackled by sparkle and poor life choices,” Tyler says, laughing harder.

Liam claps his hands once, wiping tears from his eyes. “Man, Alex Wolfe, feared defenseman, running shirtless through a hotel to hide from one drunk girl and falling into a glitter trap with another. I’m framing this season highlight.”

I grin, flipping them off again but laughing along with them now.

Because honestly? If I have to be the glitter-covered joke of the trip, at least I’m owning it.

Better to laugh than to cry sparkly tears all the way home.

Plus, we’ve still got training to get done when we get back. Then I need to figure this shit out with Elsie. I promised to help her, and I will but it’s not guaranteed the guys will speak with her.

We typically stick to who we know, and while I said I would speak with her in front of them, it’s still lining myself up for abuse. Which means, I have to make sure she looks the part, but also stands out.

I have to ensure that when I go to her, to speak, it’s clear she’s someone important, someone worthy to speak to.

“Zamboni,” Coach calls out and walks toward the back of the coach.

“It’s Princess Cherrypicker now,” Liam calls out laughing.

Coach groans. “Okay, Princess Cherrypicker. The guys made me aware you were running late as you had to hide from your own room.”

Of course they told him. “In my defence, I had no choice.”

The guys laugh. “Running scared from a woman.”

Coach looks at them, then moves, and throws something at me. My bags lands on me. “You got my shit?”

I’m so getting changed, right here and now.

“Yeah, I got your shit, goddammit, next time you run, take your shit with you.”

“It’s easily replaceable.” I shrug slightly and Coach yanks the bag from me.

“Then you don’t need it.”

“Woah, okay, I need it.” I snatch it back. Pulling my bag open I see my headphones. Finally, I can listen to music and block out their jokes.

“Don’t leave your shit again.” Coach turns and begins to walk away.

“My sanity required it,” I call out and rip off the shirt, putting on the spare one I have. The shoes are next to go then the jeans. Once I’m in my own clothes, comfortable clothes. I put on the headphones and relax back.

Closing my eyes, I decide to sleep, I barely slept enough last night, so I’m going to now.

I’m not sure how long it is before someone kicks my leg and wakes me. Getting up I stretch and follow the guys into the rink. We’re all quiet now.

We’re hung over and tired, and the buzz from yesterday’s win is dying down. We’re still in season, so we have work to do.

As I lace up my skates, I watch the guys move around and get ready. They are still in high spirits, not as much as before, but every now and then they throw out a remark about my sparkling. I won’t even engage with them.

I have an hour of training, and then I’m done until tomorrow morning. Stepping on the ice, I begin to do laps, nothing major, just slow and lazy. The guys soon join me. We fall into our routine.

Coach is yelling at us from the side, barking out which drills to start with, his voice bouncing off the cold arena walls. The energy on the ice is slower than usual, half from exhaustion, half from the pounding hangovers we’re all pretending not to have.

“Warm-up laps, let’s go!” he shouts, clapping his hands loudly enough to make half the team wince.

I push off harder, feeling the familiar glide of the skates under me, the burn in my thighs with every stride. Beside me, Tyler groans under his breath, still moving but looking like he’d rather throw himself into the boards.

We start with simple puck control drills. Quick touches, weaving through the cones laid out down the length of the ice. My hands are a little slower than normal, and the hangover is dulling my usual sharpness, but it feels good to move and sweat it out.

“Come on, Wolfe, even the cones are moving faster than you,” Coach barks from the boards.

Liam snickers behind me and almost trips over a puck, which makes me feel slightly better.

From there, we shift into battle drills. Small area games, 2-on-2 battles in the corner where the boards become your best friend or your worst enemy depending on how fast you move. The contact wakes me up properly, getting slammed into the glass by Josh has a way of doing that.

“Good, good!” Coach yells, pacing along the blue line. “I want you to compete! Compete!”

By the time we move into shooting drills, everyone is sweating and grumbling under their breath. The pucks are rattling off the glass more than they’re hitting the net, but we work through it anyway. Tyler flubs a shot so bad it barely lifts off the ice.

“Maybe you need some of Alex’s glitter magic,” Josh calls, tossing a puck at Tyler’s skates.

I smirk but say nothing, saving my energy for the final set of suicides Coach has lined up. He blows the whistle and points.

“Lines! Let’s go! Move like you mean it!”

We sprint from goal line to blue line and back, then center ice and back, then far blue and back. Each time, my legs scream a little louder, my lungs burning from the cold air. It’s punishment wrapped up as conditioning.

Everyone’s skating slower by the end, bent over at the waist, gasping, jerseys damp with sweat.

“Last one!” Coach shouts, and there’s a collective groan from the team.

We push off again, giving what little is left in the tank.

By the time we finally collapse against the boards, sucking down water like it might save our lives, I’m too exhausted to even care that I’m still probably sparkling under the arena lights.

Coach gives us a sharp nod. “Stretch, cool down. Then hit the showers.”

We scatter around the rink, stretching out tight muscles, no one talking much anymore. I sit on the bench, tugging at my laces, already counting down the minutes until I can crash into my bed back home.

Tomorrow’s going to suck even worse.

Because not only do I have to survive another brutal training day, I have to take Elsie shopping.

God help me and her as well.

Chapter 9

Elsie POV

I get home and step into my apartment, feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. Sarah looks up from the couch as I walk in, frowning the moment she sees me.

“Didn’t go well?” she asks, leaning over the back of the couch to get a better look at me.

“Define well,” I mutter, tossing my bag down and kicking off my shoes.

She eyes me carefully. “Well, you’re not smiling, you look like you just lost a fight with a raincloud, and… why the hell do you have glitter in your ear?”

Sighing heavily, I drop onto the couch beside her. “Do you think guys in sports ignore the reporters who don’t stand out?”

Sarah wrinkles her nose. “What do you mean, stand out?”

“I mean, does how you dress make a difference?” I ask, waiting for her to answer, desperate for someone to tell me it doesn’t matter as much as I think it does.

She thinks about it for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip. “I would have said no. But honestly? I’m not in your world. I don’t know how it really works.”

“But you watch sports. You see interviews. Have you noticed anything?”

Sarah hesitates, then nods slowly. “Now that you mention it… yeah. Unless the reporter’s working for a major news network, the ones who get noticed tend to look… polished. Stylish. Like they’re supposed to be there.”

Perfect. Just perfect. More confirmation that everything Alex said is true. That my stupid giant coat and messy hair probably do make me invisible.

I lean back on the couch, covering my face with my hands. “I hate that he’s right.”

Sarah raises an eyebrow. “Who’s right?”

“No one,” I mutter quickly. Definitely not explaining that particular disaster yet.

She shrugs and turns her attention back to the TV, flipping through channels. I sit there stewing in my own misery, replaying everything over and over again in my head.

I need to change. Not because I want to. Because if I don’t, this dream of mine? It’s dead before it even gets off the ground. And the worst part?

The only person willing to help me do it… is Alex Wolfe.

The man who watched me glitter-bomb myself, mocked my coat, and somehow still managed to agree to help without making me want to punch him in the face.

Well… mostly.

Grabbing my phone, I open our last messages and stare at the screen. He said he’d text when we got back. Part of me hopes he forgets.

The smarter part of me knows he won’t. And that I’m going to regret every second of agreeing to this deal.

Dragging myself off the couch, I grab my bag and head out. I know there’s no avoiding it. They’re expecting something from me. Anything.

The train ride into the city feels longer than usual, and by the time I step into the office, my nerves are completely shot.

The newsroom is its usual loud, frantic mess. Phones ringing, keyboards clacking, someone yelling for coffee like it’s a life-or-death situation. I weave through the chaos and head straight for my boss’s office.

He’s already watching me through the glass, tapping a pen against his desk like a ticking bomb. I push open the door and step inside, trying to ignore the way my palms are sweating.

He leans back in his chair, expression flat. “Tell me you’ve got something.”

I shut the door behind me and sit down across from him. “Not exactly an interview yet. But I have a real lead now.”

His eyebrows lift a fraction. “Go on.”

I force myself to meet his eyes. “Alex Wolfe. He’s agreed to help me. He’s going to take me shopping, help me change how I present myself so I can fit in better. Stand out. Look like someone the players will actually want to talk to.”

I see the flicker of interest immediately. He sits forward, pen stilling in his hand.

“It’s a plan,” I push on quickly. “Once I look the part, I’ll finally get the access I need. Wolfe’s even going to come over to me after games, make it look like I’m legit so others will follow.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me, tapping the pen against his lower lip.

Then he smiles, and it’s not the good kind of smile. “Forget the interviews,” he says.

I blink. “What?”

“You’re not writing about the team anymore,” he says, voice firm. “You’re writing about Alex Wolfe.”

Confusion whips through me. “I don’t understand. That’s not what—”

“You’re already in,” he cuts me off. “He’s letting you into his world. Shopping trips. Personal conversations. He’s showing you who he really is. That’s a hell of a lot more valuable than the same three quotes about ‘getting pucks deep’ and ‘giving 110 percent.’”

I shake my head slowly. “But he thinks he’s helping me. Not… being a story.”

“And he can’t find out,” my boss says simply. “The second he knows, he’ll change how he acts. You won’t get the real him. You’ll get a performance. We want the truth.”

My mouth goes dry.

“This is your shot, Elsie,” he adds, leaning back in his chair again. “Write the story people actually want to read. The player behind the jersey. The guy no one really knows. How he acts when he thinks no one’s looking.”

“And if I say no?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it.

He smiles coldly. “Then your last day was yesterday.”

Shit.

“No, tell me how you ended up with this arrangement with him.” He smirks at me.

Sighing, I nod. Sitting, I explain everything, he ignores me outright, even after hearing me call his name. To him, rushing into my room half naked, and hiding from a woman. I explain a lot.

He smiles like it’s perfect. “Write it, start at the beginning, write how you met, how the arrangement came about. Make sure it’s a real story, showing him. As that version of him isn’t real. I want the readers to see how he changes.”

All I can do is nod. I’m not happy about this, but I’m also stuck.

“When you’re worried or doubting yourself, remind yourself of how he basically just said you have to dress and expose your body for him to care about you. That’s the true guy.”

Well, that’s true. I get up slowly, my legs feeling like they’re made of cement.

“Good luck,” he says as I walk to the door. “Don’t screw it up.”

The door clicks shut behind me, but the words keep ringing in my ears. I lean back against the wall in the hallway, heart hammering.

So that’s the new plan, use Alex. Get close, and write it all down.

If he finds out? I’m finished. Both with him and with everything I’ve been working toward.

The moment I step outside the building, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, already half-dreading what I’m about to see.

It’s a message from an unknown number. I open it quickly, heart thudding harder than it should.

Meet me. Let’s get started today.

Alex

I stare at the screen for a second too long, almost willing it to change. But it doesn’t. Another message flashes through almost immediately, this time with the name of the store and the address.

Well. So much for hoping he would forget.

I was half-hoping he would blow me off, that I could go back to the office and tell them it didn’t work out. That Alex lost interest. That the plan fell apart before it even began.

But no. He messaged. He’s ready, and he’s serious about helping me. Now I have a decision to make.

Do I go meet him, stick to the original plan, and risk everything by refusing to write the story my boss actually wants?

Do I go and write the expose, betray Alex’s trust before it’s even properly built?

Or do I turn around, delete the message, pretend it never arrived, and throw away everything I’ve worked for?

My stomach twists painfully. I can’t stand out here all day overthinking it. I already know what I have to do. I have to go.

I flag down a cab and climb inside, giving the driver the address Alex sent.

The ride is short, barely enough time to calm down. My palms stay sweaty, my mind racing, until the car pulls up in front of the store.

I glance out the window, and my heart sinks. This isn’t just some regular clothing shop. It’s high-end. Gleaming windows, sleek mannequins, perfectly curated displays.

I’m so screwed. The driver clears his throat impatiently, and I fumble with a handful of cash, throwing it at him before stepping out onto the sidewalk.

Staring at the entrance, all I can think is one thing. This is way, way more than I signed up for. And there’s no backing out now.

I push the door open and step inside the store, feeling like I’ve wandered into another universe. Everything gleams, marble floors, gold racks, mirrors that stretch all the way up to the ceiling.

I spot Alex instantly, lounging against a display like he owns the place.

He’s changed back into his usual clothes, clean, well-fitted jeans, a dark hoodie, expensive sneakers. Of course he looks like he belongs here.

His eyes light up when he sees me, and he straightens up, pushing off the wall with a little too much enthusiasm for my liking.

“Took you long enough,” he says, smirking.

“I was busy panicking,” I mutter.

He ignores that completely, waving me over.

I stomp across the showroom toward him, glancing around at all the impossibly chic clothes that I absolutely cannot afford. “So, what are we looking for? A nice shirt? A jacket? Maybe something I can bribe the players into noticing?”

Alex laughs, an actual, genuine laugh. “One outfit? You think this is a one outfit thing?”

I blink at him.

“You’re getting a whole wardrobe,” he says casually, like this isn’t horrifying. “Multiple shops. New everything. If I’m sticking my neck out for you, you’re going to look the part every day, at every occasion.”

I stare at him, completely speechless.

Before I can even begin to argue, he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “And you’re not picking the clothes.”

From behind a rack of designer blazers, a woman appears. She’s tall, stunning, and dressed so sharply it makes me feel like a potato with legs.

“This is Leah,” Alex says. “She’s going to help.”

Leah smiles warmly at me, but there’s something terrifyingly efficient about the way she sizes me up with one quick glance.

“We’ll find what suits you best,” Leah says, her voice smooth and professional. “Bring out your figure. Your strengths. Build you a look that demands attention.”

I open my mouth, but Alex cuts in before I can speak.

“And then,” he says, grinning like the devil himself, “you’re going to model the outfits. For me.”

I gape at him. “Model them?”

“Catwalk,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “Every outfit. Full strut. Head high. Confidence. If you’re going to get players to talk to you, you need to learn how to look like you belong in front of them.”

I’m pretty sure I’m having an out-of-body experience. “You want me to strut… in public?” I hiss.

“In front of Leah. And me,” he says, grinning wider. “And probably a few innocent bystanders. No pressure.”

I look at Leah, who gives me a supportive but very serious nod. I groan, covering my face with my hands.

This is going to be the most humiliating day of my entire life. And somehow, I know Alex is going to enjoy every second of it.

Still, what other choice do I have? None right now. Everything is relying on this. All I need to do is write about who he is, what he’s like and the kind of man he is.

I can do this. I can write an article about him while keeping it clean, classy, and good-looking. So it’s not a bad reflection of him.

Chapter 10

Alex POV

She looks so completely out of her comfort zone that it’s almost painful to watch.

Almost. I lean back against the wall, arms crossed, as Leah circles around her like a vulture, measuring, inspecting, holding different fabrics up to her body while Elsie squirms like she’s being sentenced to death by fashion.

“Where did you used to shop?” I ask casually, enjoying every second of her suffering.

Elsie shoots me a look like she’s considering violence. “At stores. You know, normal ones. Where you walk in, grab what you like, find your size, and leave.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And what size do you think you are?”

She folds her arms tightly across her chest. “A twelve. Why?”

I glance down, letting my eyes sweep over her frame, not in a way that would get me sued, but enough to know better. “You’re not a twelve.”

She glares at me, fire in her eyes. “Yes, I am. I know my own size.”

“No, you’re not,” I say, fighting a grin. “You’re a ten at most. Probably closer to an eight depending on the brand.”

She bristles instantly. “I like baggy comfortable clothing,” she snaps.

“Sure you do,” I say, not bothering to hide my laugh. “Which explains why you dress like you’re trying to hide from a crime scene.”

Elsie opens her mouth, probably to argue again, but Leah cuts in before she can.

“Well, from what I’m seeing,” Leah says, professional but blunt, “nothing she’s wearing now is doing her any favors. Everything is oversized. It hides her shape completely, and frankly, it drowns her.”

I smirk, unable to resist. “So if I threw a bucket of water on her, she’d look like a drowned cat.”

Elsie gasps indignantly, but the image is too good, and even Leah is trying not to laugh.

Leah turns back to the racks, pulling out a pair of tailored trousers and a sleek button-up blouse. She holds them out toward Elsie.

“This,” Leah says, “is for colder days. Clean lines, good structure. And for the love of everything, don’t button the blouse all the way up to your chin.”

Sounds like we have our first victim, I mean, outfit.

Elsie mutters something about fashion being a cult under her breath, but she takes the clothes and disappears into the changing room, shoulders stiff with tension.

Leah leans casually against the wall beside me, arms folded, giving me a sideways look.

“So, big brother,” she says casually, throwing the words out there like a grenade, “why are you really helping her?”

I glance sideways at her. “Since when do you ask so many questions?”

“Since you decided to bankroll an entire makeover for a woman you barely know,” Leah says, raising an eyebrow. “Wardrobe, hair appointments, this whole mission… You’re acting like she’s some project you picked up off the clearance shelf.”

I shrug, keeping my tone easy. “Maybe I’m just feeling generous.”

Leah snorts. “You’re about as generous as a tax auditor. Try again.”

I grin but say nothing, letting her stew in her curiosity. Because the truth? It’s way messier than I’m ready to admit. Luckily, the changing room door creaks open before Leah can interrogate me further.

Elsie steps out slowly, tugging at the hem of the blouse like she wants to disappear through the floor.

And for a second, a real, honest second, the world around me goes a little quieter. She looks good, like someone who fits into this world.

Her cheeks already flushing like she’s expecting me to laugh. Which, to be fair, I am. Just not for the reason she thinks.

I let out a low whistle, dragging it out obnoxiously just to see her squirm. “Look at that. You’re starting to look like a real woman. Not a walking, talking coat hanger.”

Her jaw drops.

Leah laughs, handing me a hanger from the discard pile. “You know, he’s not wrong. Before, you kind of had ‘I fell into a donation bin’ energy.”

Elsie glares at both of us, then folds her arms. Or tries to, the blouse is fitted enough that the move looks more like she’s trying to hug herself.

I wave my hand at her, signaling. “Come on. Walk.”

She blinks. “Walk where?”

“Catwalk,” I say, smirking. “Go to the end of the aisle and come back. Sell it. Confidence. Swagger. All that good stuff.”

Her mouth opens to protest, but Leah nudges her lightly in the back.

“Go on. Might as well get used to it now.”

Elsie mutters something about fashion being a cult again but obeys. She stomps awkwardly to the end of the aisle, turns like an angry ballerina, and marches back, shoulders stiff as a board.

I clap slowly when she reaches me, biting back a grin. “Beautiful. Very threatening. Maybe next time try looking less like you’re about to take a mugshot.”

“I hate you,” she hisses under her breath, yanking at the blouse again.

“You’ll survive,” I say, still grinning. “You might even start to enjoy it once you realise you don’t look like you raided your grandmother’s attic anymore.”

Leah comes back over, holding up a slinky black dress that definitely wasn’t designed for casual errands. She holds it in front of Elsie with a bright, evil smile.

“This one’s for tonight.”

Elsie blinks at her, then swings her confused gaze over to me. “Tonight?”

I shrug, all innocent-like. “You need to get social.”

Her eyes narrow instantly. “Define social.”

“You want to fit into this world?” I say, casually checking the time. “You need to be seen. And not just seen standing awkwardly outside the arena gates. You need to go where the players go when the cameras aren’t on.”

I let it hang there, watching her brain catch up.

“Clubs,” she says flatly.

“Elite clubs,” I correct with a grin. “VIP areas. Afterparties. The places where reputations are made… and broken.”

Elsie stares at me like I just asked her to rob a bank in high heels.

“Relax,” I say, smirking. “You’ll survive. Barely.”

Leah holds out the dress a little higher, winking. “Go try it on. Let’s see if you can survive the night without hiding in a corner.”

Elsie groans like she’s about to face a firing squad but snatches the dress and storms back into the changing room.

I lean back against the wall again, grinning to myself. This is going to be a hell of a lot more entertaining than I thought.

The door to the changing room creaks open, and Elsie steps out, tugging nervously at the hem of the black dress.

And for a solid second, I completely forget how to function.

The dress isn’t just flattering, it’s devastating. Tight in all the right places, dipping low enough at the neckline to make my mouth go dry, short enough that one wrong move and the room would probably explode.

She shifts awkwardly under my stare, cheeks going red. The dress clings to her curves, showing off everything she’s spent years hiding under baggy coats and shapeless clothes.

I clear my throat, trying to pull myself back together before I make a bigger idiot of myself.

“Well,” I say, leaning back casually against the wall, “you finally look like you belong in public. And not like you’re about to lead a nature hike.”

Elsie glares at me, crossing her arms, which only makes the situation about ten times worse, and I have to physically look away, pretending to study a rack of shoes like they’re the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.

“You look fine,” I add quickly. “Good. Like someone who actually knows what she’s doing.”

Leah steps in, grinning as she gives Elsie an approving once-over. “Perfect for tonight.”

Elsie mutters something under her breath, probably about murdering us both in our sleep, but she doesn’t argue. She just disappears back into the changing room with the dress.

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. If this is how bad it is with a dress, tonight’s going to be hell.

By the time she reappears, back in normal clothes, she looks about one more comment away from tackling me to the ground.

“We’re not done yet,” I remind her cheerfully, grabbing a couple of the shopping bags. “That was store one.”

She groans like I’m personally ending her will to live.

“We’ve got two more,” I add, steering her toward the door. “New wardrobe, remember? You need options. Professional. Casual. Public appearances. Underground scenes.”

“You’re buying way too much into this,” she mutters.

“Nope,” I say, grinning. “You’re the one who wants to survive in this world. I’m just making sure you don’t crash and burn in a potato sack. Plus, I promised to help after you saved me.”

She shoves the door open a little too hard, and I just laugh, following her back into the sunlight.

One down, two to go, and if her glares keep getting sharper, I might not survive this shopping trip either.

By the time we step into the final clothing shop, I’m already half-exhausted, and it’s not even from the walking.

It’s from her. Elsie fought me every step of the way in the last two stores. Every skirt, every blouse, every single pair of boots. You would’ve thought I was asking her to sign up for a reality show called Who Wants to Die in Heels?

But somehow… somehow, we managed it. She’s got at least eight outfits now. Real ones. Ones that actually show she has a body under all that sarcasm and stubbornness.

Now here we are. Standing in the middle of a lingerie store, sure it’s not exactly clothes, but it counts.

Elsie crosses her arms instantly, her entire body screaming rebellion.

“This isn’t necessary,” she mutters, glancing around at the racks of lace and silk like they’re personally insulting her. “No one’s going to see it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Wrong.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off before she can launch into another speech.

“Lingerie isn’t just about who sees it,” I explain, grabbing a simple black bra from a nearby display. “It’s about how clothes fit. How you feel in them. Structure, lift, shape, it changes everything.”

She looks unconvinced.

Sighing, I reach into one of the shopping bags and pull out a silky, low-cut top we bought earlier. I shove it into her hands.

“Put this on,” I tell her. “Over the bra you’re wearing now.”

Muttering curses under her breath, she disappears into a small dressing area. A minute later, she steps back out.

Yeah, she looks good. She always looks good now, but not finished. I nod toward the giant mirror covering half the wall. “Go look.”

She trudges over, glances at her reflection, and shrugs. “I don’t see anything different.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose like I’m trying to summon patience from the heavens.

“Of course you don’t,” I mutter. Then I grab a black push-up bra from a nearby rack and hold it out to her. “Here. Switch yours for this.”

She stares at me like I’ve just suggested she fight a lion. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” I say, not budging.

Elsie snatches the bra from my hand with a death glare and stomps back into the changing room.

The second she disappears, I lean against the wall and exhale slowly. This is either the best or the worst idea I’ve ever had.

When the door creaks open again, I look up, and nearly forget how to breathe.

She walks out slowly, tugging at the top nervously, and holy hell, it’s a different game now. The top hugs her in ways it didn’t before. Her figure looks sharper, cleaner, more confident. The kind of look that would turn every head in a room without her even trying.

I swallow hard and motion her back toward the mirror.

“Now look,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.

She hesitates, but finally steps closer and stares at her reflection.

Even she can’t pretend she doesn’t see it now. The top curves perfectly along her chest, fitting the way it was actually designed to fit. Her posture shifts slightly without her even noticing, her shoulders going back, her chin lifting just a little.

“See?” I say, stepping up behind her and tapping lightly against the mirror where her silhouette stands out. “Better posture. Better shape. Better confidence.”

She stares at herself for a second longer, then shakes her head, flustered. “It’s just a bra.”

“No,” I say quietly, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “It’s you. Finally letting yourself be seen.”

For once, she doesn’t have a quick comeback, and if I’m not careful, I’m going to forget why we’re even doing this in the first place.