Damage Control: Fake Dating the Hockey Bad Boy Novel – Chapter 1 — Tessa — “This area’s restricted, ma’am.” The security guard steps into my path. He’s big and broad, very convinced of himself, and he definitely peaked in high school. His gaze drags over me. I really don’t have time for this. I flash my badge in his face and side-step him without breaking stride. “PR,” I say flatly. He blinks at me, recalculating. This hallway goes on forever, and every fifty feet there’s another meathead just like him giving me the same look. It’s a little bit of “you don‘t belong back here,” mixed with “please don’t yell at me if I’m wrong,” followed closely by “or maybe do yell at me… I might like it.” According to my friends, I bring a sort of Wednesday Addams vibe to the function that’s like catnip for men. It’s truly unfortunate, but I can usually use it to my advantage. Hopefully it’ll help me slip a leash on Mercer, too. I’m the team’s Assistant Director of PR, and I love my job. I landed it eleven months ago, fresh out of college. Bright-eyed and ready to sell my soul for health insurance and a 401k.
I took out my facial piercings for this, and I haven’t regretted it even once. Until this morning, when I got assigned to Jackson frigging Mercer. His last PR rep quit yesterday. Stress-induced hives. The woman before her lasted less than a month before transferring to a different department. I reach the designated waiting spot by the locker room door as the game’s final buzzer echoes up the hall, followed by the roar of an adoring crowd. Press is already lining up further down the hall. Vultures with recording equipment, hungry for soundbites they can twist into tomorrow’s headlines. They’re especially hungry for Mercer. He might be my personal nightmare, but he’s every sports reporter’s wet dream. I smooth my skirt for the twelfth time, check my stockings for runs, and take a steadying breath as the door to the ice opens at the end of the hall. This is going to be awful, but I‘m great at my job. I can handle anything he throws at me. The sweaty parade begins, and the press is on them like piranhas. I raise my voice over the noise. “Mercer’s off the table tonight, folks! Anyone else is fair game!” I call out, making eye contact with the regulars who know I don’t bluff.
They look pissed, but they comply. Then he appears at the end of the hall. Jackson Mercer, all loose-limbed confidence, sweaty hair, jersey untucked, and that post-win glow that makes everyone swoon. Everyone but me, that is. I honestly don’t know what they see in him. He‘s heading straight for the locker room. I clear my throat, ready with my professional introduction. “Jackson. I’m Tessa Morgan. Assistant Director of—“ He glances at me, then brushes past without breaking stride and shoves through the locker room door. Okay. Rude. I roll my eyes and follow him in. The locker room smells like sweat, antiseptic, and male ego. Stalls line the walls, each with a nameplate above it. Jackson‘s already at his, tugging his jersey over his head. His shoulder pads hit the floor with a thud, and now he’s just in his undershirt. Damp fabric clinging to muscles like… Nope, I’m not looking. I approach him. A few other players filter in, giving us sidelong looks. “Jackson,” I say again, keeping my voice even. “We need to talk about your conduct during the intermission interview.” Still facing away from me, he peels his undershirt off. It drops to the floor. “Didn’t realize I had a new handler.” “I’m not your handler,” I say, scrolling on my tablet like I’m actually looking at something instead of just needing somewhere to focus my eyes. “I’m just here to clean up your mess.” He sounds amused now. “Oh, so you’re like a janitor.” I still don’t look up from my screen. “Actually, yeah.
Maybe I can get hazard pay for this.” There’s a beat of silence, then his voice sounds a lot closer than before. “Let me see what you’re so fascinated by over there.” I look up. Huge mistake. He’s right there. Maybe a foot of space between us, damp hair falling across his forehead, skin that looks unfairly perfect up close. His golden-brown eyes are locked on mine. He smells clean, athletic, like whatever expensive deodorant they’re sponsoring him to wear this week. I keep my expression neutral, difficult as it may be. “Next time they ask you for an interview, please try not to insult the people paying your salary.” He leans against his stall and crosses his arms. “Where’s the fun in that?” His smirk widens, and I swear it could power all of Duluth with its audacity. I tilt my head and force my voice into its signature dangerously sweet tone. “My personal idea of fun is not spending my Friday night drafting apologies for your inability to behave in front of a camera.” He chuckles, low and infuriatingly calm. “What is your idea of fun, Tessa Morgan?” The use of my full name sends me reeling a little bit.
He ignored me completely in the hall, but he filed the name away? I’m trying to collect my thoughts when someone whistles sharply from the doorway. “Ooh, Jax has a new handler!” The voice is gleeful, and it’s met with a bunch of shouts and whistles from the other players. I glance over my shoulder to see Tyler Jensen entering the locker room, then I turn back to Jackson, refusing to acknowledge the audience. Jackson hasn’t looked away from me. His smirk deepens, just a fraction, acknowledging the chorus without breaking our stare-down. “You hear that?” he says, dropping his voice so only I can hear it over the growing clatter of equipment and shower noises starting up. “They think you’re my handler.” “I heard,” I say evenly. I open a Word document on my tablet just for something to do with my hands. “They’re mistaken. I’m crisis management. You’re a crisis.” He barks a laugh, short and surprised. It’s a different sound than his media-trained chuckle. Rougher. More real. It does something annoying to my pulse. “A crisis! Ouch. That’s a new one.” I look down at my tablet again because I can’t look at his mouth when it’s grinning like that. It’s distracting in a way that feels professionally hazardous. He finally looks away and sits down to start unlacing his skates, bringing his head level with my hips.
Nope. I take a deliberate step back, and the distance helps a little. But he’s still so close I can see the individual droplets of sweat on the back of his neck. Just beyond the top edge of my screen. I track the path of one particular bead as it rolls down his back and disappears into the waistband of his hockey pants. Then he looks up at me. I don’t gulp. I refuse to gulp. But my throat feels tight. My professional mask feels about as thick as tissue paper. I force my eyes to narrow slightly. A show of annoyance is safer than whatever my face wants to do right now. “So… we done here, Tessa Morgan?” he asks. My full name again. Like he’s testing it, turning it into a tool to get under my skin. Damn it, it’s working. I take a breath. “That depends.” I shift my tablet to my other arm. “Are you going to behave during your next interview?” He pulls his skates off and places them neatly side-by-side in his stall. He stands up again, rolling his shoulders. Then he looks at me, and the pure, unrepentant mischief in his eyes is my only warning. “Probably not,” he says casually. His eyes flick down. Then back up. He smirks again. Oh no. And then his hands go to the waistband of his hockey pants, and my brain short-circuits completely.
He can’t be. He wouldn’t. This is a professional setting—I’m standing right here—oh my god, he is. He starts to pull the shorts and pads down, revealing the top of his compression shorts underneath, and the tanned, defined V pointing straight down into them. A hot, mortifying flush erupts across my face and chest. I whip around so fast my neck hurts, presenting my back to him and my blushing face to the rest of the suddenly very quiet locker room. My heart’s hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Laughter erupts. Loud, roaring, full of locker-room glee. Whistles pierce the air. Someone catcalls. Through it all, I hear his voice, laced with satisfied amusement. “Didn’t take you for the shy type, Morgan.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, summoning every ounce of icy composure I possess. “Real mature, Jackson.” “I’m just changing, Tess,” he says, and the abbreviated nickname feels a thousand times more intimate than my full name. “It is a locker room.” “I’ll check in later,” I bite out. I don’t turn around. I can’t look at him again. Not with my face feeling like a neon sign blinking ‘FLUSTERED.’ I just start walking. The guys are still laughing, calling out playful jabs at Jackson. I don’t hear his response. My entire being is focused on the door, the handle, getting out of this testosterone-soaked fishbowl. The door swings shut behind me with a solid thud, cutting off the sound of their laughter. I lean back against the cool concrete wall. My cheeks are still blazing.
I can feel the heat radiating off them. I close my eyes and try to slow my heartbeat. I’m such an idiot for letting him affect me like that. His voice, his smirk, the weight of his attention… it’s replaying in a humiliating loop behind my eyelids. I push off from the wall and straighten my blazer with a sharp tug. Okay. Fine. Round one to Jackson Mercer. He wants a game? I’m great at games. He wants a handler? I’ll give him one. Next time, I won’t be the one losing control. Chapter 2 — Jackson — The door closes behind her, and the boys start digging in. “Whoa, Jax! Cold-blooded!” someone yells from the showers. “Did you see her face? Man, you torched her,” Keller adds. I finish peeling off my gear, still smirking. It worked. Got her out of here. Got under that pristine, professional skin. Mission accomplished. So why the hell am I still thinking about her? Ty materializes at my side as I toss my pads into my stall. “Dude, she was RED. I think you broke her.” “She’ll be fine,” I say, heading for the showers. “She’s tough. Has to be, to get assigned to me.” It’s what they expect. The arrogant asshole. The guy who doesn’t give a shit. It’s easier than the alternative. “She started it.
Called me a crisis.” “I mean… if the shoe fits?” Ty winces, but he’s still grinning. “So it’s war, then?” “It’s not war,” I say, but the word feels kind of right. It feels like a challenge. Tessa Morgan, with her sharp tongue and sharper eyes, is a challenge. Tonight’s win clinched our spot in the playoffs. Outside the arena, the air is electric with the roar of a happy crowd and the flash of cameras. I slip the mask on. The easy smile, the nod for the fans, the quick signature for a kid holding out a jersey. It’s a performance, smoother than any power play. My body does it on autopilot while my brain replays the way her cheeks flushed that bright cherry red. I’d like to see that again. The Iron Axe, which we fondly refer to as ‘the Axe’ is our usual haunt. Tonight it’s a zoo. The smell of spilled beer and fried food hits me as we step through the door. The music is loud, the laughter is louder. The energy is palpable. Playoffs. I hear the word in every shouted conversation. We carve out a territory in the back, then I head straight for the bar. Eyes follow me. I’m used to it. A lot of them are women. Smiling, whispering, glancing away when I catch them looking. There’s a blonde in a tight dress by the end, exactly my type. Or what used to be my type. Tall, curves in all the right places, a look that says she knows how to have a good time without any complications. I order a beer. The cold bottle feels good in my hand. I take a long pull and my eyes sweep the room again, past the blonde, past the groups of people.
Stupidly searching for a long black ponytail and a disapproving frown. Of course she’s not here. Why would she be? She’s probably sitting at home, drafting a strongly worded memo about my “conduct” or dusting her collection of creepy dolls. Ty waves me over to the pool table where they’re starting a game. “Get over here and lose some money, Mercer!” I push off the bar and join them. Pick a cue, chalk it up. It’s a different kind of focus than being on the ice. I fall into the familiar stance and line up a shot. For a second, everything else falls away. The noise, the crowd, the blue eyes that won’t leave my fuckin’ head. I sink the nine ball with a clean crack. The guys groan, and Ty slaps me on the back. “Show-off.” I straighten up. This is what I need. This noise. This easiness. Beer, buddies, another game to win. This should be enough to scrub the image of Tessa Morgan from my brain. And the sway of her ass as she tucked tail out of the locker room, away from me. Okay, what the fuck? I shake it off. I’m lining up another shot when I feel a presence at my elbow. Not one of the guys. Softer. Smells like vanilla and entitlement. I glance over. It’s the blonde from the bar. Up close, she’s even more of a knockout. Her dress is the color of red wine and it clings to every curve.
Her smile is wide, white, and practiced. “Hey,” she says, voice pitched to carry over the music. “Amazing game tonight.” I straighten up and lean my pool cue against the table. “Thanks.” It’s my standard issue media-trained response. Gratitude without commitment. “No, seriously,” she says, taking a step closer. Her eyes dip down my body and back up, as deliberate as a check into the boards. “You were incredible. That goal in the third period? I almost fell out of my seat.” She giggles. It’s a light, airy sound. Charming. It just feels like noise. My brain automatically files the information: great ass, amazing tits, clearly knows her way around a hockey player. This is the script. This is the part where I turn on the charm, buy her a drink, and see where the night goes. It’s easy. It’s what I do. “Lucky bounce,” I say, giving her a fraction of my focus. The rest of my attention is… elsewhere. Back in a locker room. On a woman who looked at me like I was something she just scraped off her boot. “Modest, too,” she purrs, rests her hand on my forearm. Her fingers are warm. The touch is meant to be an invitation. She keeps talking. Something about the team’s power play percentage.
Or maybe her friend who’s a big fan. I nod and keep my smile plastered on. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the dark window behind her. I look the part. I look engaged. I’m a fuckin’ liar. “…and then when you scored—” she says. And for a second, the cadence of her voice isn’t hers anymore. It’s sharper. Colder. It’s Tessa’s voice I hear, layered over the blonde’s, saying something sarcastic and cutting. What the fuck is happening to me? I blink, shattering the illusion. “Yeah,” I say, cutting her off without meaning to. “Sorry. What were you saying?” She pauses. Her smile falters for a microsecond before she pieces it back together. She leans in. Her vanilla perfume gets stronger. “It’s okay,” she says, brushing it off like it’s nothing. Her hand slides a little higher on my arm. “I was just saying you looked amazing out there.” “Mm.” The sound is non-committal. I’m not even looking at her anymore. My eyes are scanning the crowd again, like I might actually find a corporate goth PR rep lurking by the jukebox. She studies my face, tilts her head. “Are you always this hard to impress?” she asks playfully. I almost laugh. The sound gets stuck in my throat. Hard to impress? No. I’m just impressively fucked in the head tonight.
I manage to shake Blondie and head for the bar again. I need something stronger than beer. Five shots of whiskey later, I’m feeling a little more like myself when movement at the end of the bar catches my eye. A guy. Big, but soft around the edges. The kind of size that comes from beer, not a gym. He’s crowding a woman sitting at the bar. She’s angled away from him, shoulders hunched up by her ears. One hand is braced flat on the counter like she’s trying to push herself away from him. He doesn’t get the hint. Or he doesn’t care. He leans in closer and says something into her hair. His hand lands on her arm. Not very gently… like a claim. She flinches away. Something settles in my gut. The restless energy from before all funnels down into a single, clear point. By the time I get to them, the guy’s hand has slid from her arm to her waist. His fingers curl into the fabric of her shirt. She’s stiff as a board. “Hey,” I say. My voice isn’t loud, but it’s loud enough. He turns, slow and irritated. “Mind your business,” he slurs. Booze on his breath. Great. I glance past him at the woman. “You good?” Her eyes dart to me, wide and startled. She gives a quick, jerky nod. She doesn’t look good. She looks trapped. I turn my focus back to him. “Take a step back, bud.” He laughs. His eyes are glazed. “Or what?” And there it is. Always the same question. I roll my shoulders, a loose, easy motion. The one I do before a face-off. It feels good. It feels real. “Or you’ll regret it,” I say, flat and calm. His smirk disappears. He doesn’t like my tone. Doesn’t like that I’m not yelling, that I’m not playing his game.
His pride’s on the line now, in front of an audience. He puffs out his chest and takes a step closer, into my space. Wrong move, big boy. The first punch lands sloppy. Not mine… his. Glances off my jaw and I barely feel it. The second one doesn’t get the chance. I grab his wrist, twist, drive him back into a table hard enough to spill drinks. Things escalate fast after that. They always do. Shouting. Movement. Someone getting between us. Someone else making it worse. I’m not trying to do any damage, I’m just trying to end it. When he lands on the floor, his buddy appears out of nowhere. Round two, I guess. I shove him into a different table. The entire bar is crowded around us now, whistling and cheering. Everyone has their phones out, undoubtedly recording this to sell to all the news outlets. Great. I’m standing there with guy number two’s blood on my knuckles when the blonde appears at my side. Clings to my arm like we’re together, just reveling in the limelight. I catch a glimpse of Ty making his way through the crowd, and I don’t need it right now. I duck out the back door of the bar. My knuckles are throbbing, and I flex my fingers, testing for damage. Nothing broken. Just bruised.
Fuck. That was stupid. Of course, blondie is on my heels. She drapes herself against my side before I can take another step. “That was so hot,” she murmurs, tracing a finger up my bicep. I step away, putting space between us. “You should go back inside.” Her face falls. “But—” “Not interested.” It comes out harsher than I mean it, but I don’t have the energy to soften it. She flinches like I slapped her, and for a second, I feel like an asshole. Then she straightens up and tosses her hair. “Whatever. Your loss.” I watch her stalk back into the bar. The door swings shut with a thud that echoes in my skull.