Page 8 of Puck You Both

Vipers PR, and it’s almost midnight. PR has no circadian rhythm. All caps, the way PR writes anything it finds exciting, the message reads:

BORDER BATTLE FOR PAWS — JOINT CHARITY CAMPAIGN W/ CHICAGO WOLVES. SEASON-LONG. CO-CHAIR ASSIGNMENT: YOU. FIRST STATUS MEETING: CHICAGO, FRIDAY.

I read it twice, then look at the ceiling. “Kurwa.”

"What?" Theo cranes his neck. "What is it? Is it the podcast already? I swear, if it’s the—"

I turn the screen around.

He reads it upside down anyway, out of habit. It takes him four full seconds. Then he makes a sound like a car alarm going off in a church.

Let me lay out what the league, in its infinite wisdom, has just handed me. A full season of charity events with the Chicago Wolves. The one and only organization in the world that employs the one and only human alive who has seen me with my hand down a man's pants.

Yeah, I think not.

I open a reply and start typing.

Unfortunately, due to scheduling conflicts—

I pause mid-word, because I can already picture the headline: VIPERS GOALIE SAYS NO TO SHELTER PUPPIES.

There's no surviving that. Nobody declines puppies. Puppies are a PR checkmate.

I delete the draft.

Beside me, Theo grins. "Friday, Patrick. You're going to his city. To do charity. With his team. While he knows." The grin again, wider. "This is the best thing that's ever happened to me."

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge on my nose. "It's not happening to you."

"I'm coming with."

My eyes snap open immediately. "You're not."

Theo already has his phone out. "I'm volunteering for the campaign."

"Theo."

"Too late. I love dogs now. Always have. Ask anyone. I'm their biggest—"

"Theodore."

He looks up at me over the screen, thumb hovering, grinning like this entire disaster is a gift he gets to unwrap.

I sigh.

I could stop this with one hand.

I don't want to.

Chapter 3

WALL

THE TEAM BUS is doing seventy on I-94 and my brain is doing considerably more, in the wrong direction.

Hopefully not visibly. Externally, I'm sitting in the back row with my legs folded sideways because buses aren’t designed for people my size, staring out the window with the carefully neutral expression of a man who is definitely thinking about hockey and absolutely nothing else.

Internally, my brain’s playing video footage on a loop without my permission.