One Pucking Secret (One Pucking #1)

Chapter 4

Wyatt

I stride into one of the conference rooms in the LA Knights’ offices, the scent of fresh paint and leather mingling in the air. Mark’s eyes track me from his seat at the large wooden table, a silent nod bidding me forward. Chloe is there too, standing with a confidence that feels foreign to me—she’s come a long way from her insecure and bookish college days. It’s both refreshing and endearing. Truth be told, it’s been two days since I last saw her, and I hate how much I’ve been dying to know what she’s been up to these past eight years.

“Miss Reed,” I say, the name feeling both familiar and foreign on my tongue.

She turns, and those green eyes are just as bright as I remember, but they don’t linger on me. They flick to Mark, then the team manager before she retrieves her notebook and iPad from her bag .

“Good morning, everyone,” I say tightly as I take my seat at the table.

“Morning,” a few of the members of the LA Knights’ team management chime in, but they lean more on the side of being intimidated yet cordial.

“Shall we get started then?” Chloe asks Mark. It’s business, all business. The ease we once shared is gone, replaced by a cool professionalism that puts walls between us.

I wasn’t in a good place to reach out after that night. My life was a mess, and then hockey took over—everything spiraled. I know that’s on me, but seeing her now, pretending like nothing happened between us… it feels like a punch to the gut.

Mark nods. “I think everyone is here, so we can begin.”

Chloe steps to the front of the room, her demeanor exuding confidence. She deftly sets up her laptop and connects it to the projector. With a click, the first slide illuminates the room, casting a soft glow on her auburn hair. She begins, her voice clear and steady, “Thank you all for joining us. Today, I’ll be presenting a strategic plan to not only rehabilitate Mr. Banks’s public image but also to showcase the person behind the player. ”

She advances the slide, her hands moving gracefully, underscoring her words. “Our primary focus will be on redefining his narrative through a series of public appearances and outreach programs. These will not only engage him with the community but also highlight his genuine, caring nature.”

Another slide appears, outlining a social media strategy. “Furthermore, we’ll enhance his presence on social media. This isn’t just about countering negative publicity. It’s about giving people a window into his world, showing them the loving, good-hearted individual he truly is.”

As she settles into her presentation, I can’t help but study her—the way her auburn hair catches the light, how she gestures with her hands when emphasizing a point. I’m here physically, but mentally lost in a past where laughter came easily and our connection was undeniable.

But now? She looks right through me, as if I’m just another face in the crowd. It irks me, the indifference. I lean back in my chair, arms crossed, a challenge in my posture. I want her to falter, to slip, to show a sliver of recognition. Surely, she remembers that night—the one that’s etched in my mind like a tattoo .

“Any questions?” Her voice finally snaps me back to the present.

“None here,” I reply. My tone is even, but inside, I’m anything but calm.

Chloe flips to a new slide, and the projector throws an array of dates and locations against the wall. “This morning, we’ll be releasing a press statement denying Sonia Drake’s claims. Over the coming weeks, we’ve scheduled a series of public appearances and outreach events.”

I sit up straighter, trying to focus on the plan instead of the woman outlining it. Volunteering is part of who I am—giving back, being with the community. It’s real, tangible. But they parade these events in front of us, like show ponies for the press? That leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

“Participation is mandatory,” Chloe continues, her eyes scanning the room but never resting on me. “It’s a great opportunity to build rapport with our fans and give back to the community.”

“Sounds good,” I say, though the words feel like gravel in my throat. I’ll play along, but not because I crave the spotlight. It’s for the kids, the ones who look up to us, wide-eyed and hopeful .

“Furthermore,” she says, clicking to another slide, “Mr. Banks will need to keep his followers engaged.” The screen now displays a mock-up social media profile with my face plastered across it. “We expect several posts daily—tidbits from training, personal thoughts, maybe a few behind-the-scenes looks at his life.”

My jaw tightens. Social media? The thought alone makes my skin crawl. I’ve never touched the stuff. It’s a beast that feeds on privacy and spits out scrutiny.

“I don’t do social media,” I interject, keeping my voice level despite the irritation spiking through me.

“Which is why we’ve taken the liberty of setting up accounts for you,” Mark chimes in before Chloe can respond, his tone brooking no argument.

I lean in close, so my next words only reach Mark’s ears. “Seriously?”

He narrows his eyes on me. “Whatever it takes, remember?”

My hands clench into fists beneath the table. An account with my name, my face, just not my words. This isn’t just crossing a line—it’s blowing it to smithereens. I shoot a glance at Mark, and his gaze tells me all I need to know: this is non-negotiable .

“Fine,” I spit out, the word like acid on my tongue. “But I’m not becoming one of those self-obsessed hash-taggers.”

“Of course not,” Chloe replies smoothly, though I catch the briefest flicker of surprise in her eyes. “It’s all about balance.”

“Miss Reed, we have all of Wyatt’s socials set up,” one of the members of my management team says. “You’ll have access as well.”

My heart jackhammers against my ribs, a silent protest rising in my throat. But before I can unleash the torrent of objections swirling in my head, Mark’s hand lands heavily on my shoulder—a silent warning reminding me to bite my tongue.

“Sounds terrific,” is all I can muster.

“Alright, that’s a wrap for now,” Mark announces. “Wyatt, you’ve got practice to prepare for.”

“I’ll head to the locker room in a bit,” I tell Mark, who rises and collects his belongings. He simply nods, then heads over to Chloe.

“Miss Reed, thanks again for all your help. I think we have a solid chance at rebuilding Wyatt’s image.”

“I agree,” Chloe says, closing her laptop and sliding it into her black work bag. “It’ll take time, but I expect the public to sway in his favor within the next few weeks.”

Mark offers Chloe a grateful smile, then with a nod to both of us, he departs the room, his presence leaving a noticeable void.

The room clears out with the shuffling of chairs and murmured goodbyes, leaving behind a stillness broken only by the click-clack of Chloe’s shoes as she approaches. She stands close, too close, and her scent—a mix of floral and vanilla—conjures memories of that night in her dorm room better left buried.

“Before you take off, Mr. Banks,” she says, her eyes scanning a clipboard, as if it’s more interesting than our past. “Let’s talk specifics about your volunteer work.”

“Already covered. Since I moved to town, I’ve been volunteering at the youth center in downtown LA.”

“Really?” Genuine surprise flickers across Chloe’s face, softening the businesslike facade.

“Yeah, I’ve been heavily involved in youth centers ever since I graduated from high school.”

“I didn’t know you were involved in that kind of thing.”

“Guess there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I say, the words sharp like a slapshot .

“Clearly.” She concedes, tapping the pen against the clipboard. “We’ll need to schedule a photographer to cover one of your volunteer shifts then.”

“Absolutely not.” The words burst from me, fierce and immediate. “Those kids aren’t props, and I’m not plastering their faces all over social media for publicity. It’ll make them uneasy, and even if their parents sign consent forms, I refuse to exploit them like that.”

Chloe’s lips press into a thin line, considering, weighing. Then, slowly, she nods. “Okay, then. How about you give me your schedule, and I’ll come myself? Just me and my cellphone. Less intimidating.”

“Fine,” I agree, relieved but wary. “But keep it low key, alright?”

“Low key is my middle name,” she says with a smirk.

“Prove it,” I tease.

She raises an eyebrow in response before turning on her heel, leaving me alone in the silence of the now-empty room.

I chuckle as I prepare to leave. Whoever this new Chloe Reed is, I’m looking forward to getting to know her.