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“You’d better have a good reason for calling me at this hour, Otto,” I grit out.

“Are you still in bed? You’re supposed to be at the arena.”

“What? No, I’m not. I have a day off.”

“Yes, from hockey. Not your other commitments. You have the soda commercial shoot today.”

“Fuuuck.”

“Yeah, fuck is the right word. Get ready and be at the arena in thirty minutes. I’ll tell the director you’re stuck in traffic.”

“Fine.” I toss my legs to the side and sit up. Then I take a whiff of my T-shirt and almost gag. “I might need more than thirty minutes, though.”

“Just get your ass moving.”

I stick my tongue out at my phone, even though it’s just a regular call and Otto can’t see me.

I’d better get going. I hope this damn commercial shoot doesn’t take the whole day. I need to fucking rest. My head feels like it’s splitting in two. I pop a couple of painkillers into my mouth. This headache won’t go away on its own.

In the shower, I take my time, and to be honest, I sort of doze off under the hot jets. Then I shave and make sure I’ve washed away the rancid smell from last night. I don’t even remember what I drank. That’s what I get for hanging out with Sergei and Daniil, my teammates from Russia. They can outdrink anyone, and I was the dumb idiot who tried to keep up.

It takes me an hour to get to the arena. I hope production isn’t on schedule, and not because of me. I’d hate if I was the one delaying everything. But at least I don’t feel or look like roadkill anymore.

A frenetic member of the production crew meets me right outside the Royals dressing room. “Oh, thank God you’re here. We need you in hair and makeup ASAP.”

“Makeup?” I wrinkle my nose.

But the assistant isn’t paying attention to me anymore. He’s talking to someone on his headset. “Yes, Santori is here. I’m walking him to makeup right now. No, he’s not in costume.”

Costume? What the fuck is this guy talking about?

“Excuse me. I thought I was supposed to wear my hockey gear.”

The assistant looks at me. “Yes, the hockey gear is the costume. They told me to get you dressed first.”

I lift my hand. “Hold up. No one is getting me dressed. I can handle that on my own. Just hand me whatever I’m supposed to wear.”

“It’s in the team’s dressing room, hanging on your peg.”

“Okay.” I turn, and the assistant follows. I stop in my tracks and lift my hand. “I got it from here.”

“I’ll wait in the hallway, then.”

“You do that.”

Jesus. I’ve done commercials before, but I’ve never had to deal with this amount of hovering. Maybe it’s because I’m late, and they’re freaking out.

I see the uniform I’m supposed to wear. It’s white with blue and neon green accents. The company’s logo is right smack in the middle of the jersey. The helmet matches the uniform, and it has the logo on it too. At least they’re letting me wear my own skates.

I put on the protective gear first, then get dressed and put my skates on. I bring the helmet with me, because they still have to do whatever to my hair and apply the makeup. Mercifully, the hair-and-makeup crew are efficient, and they work fast. Twenty minutes later, another production assistant escorts me to the rink, even though I know the way.

The first thing I see when I emerge from the tunnel are massive movie set lights and a tall and wide green screen placed on one side of the rink. It’s like media day on steroids. A short and wiry man approaches me with purpose, and I’m surprised at his agility walking on ice.

“Hello, Keanu. My name is Vincent. I’m directing the shoot today.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m sorry about the delay.”

“No worries.” He smiles. “Do you know what you have to do?”