Spiral

One

Elias

Toronto Thunder's golden boy keeps the ice cold and the women hot!

Being a rookie in the NHL is as bad as you expect it to be. But being a rookie in the NHL who's constantly in the media and hasn't scored his first career goal is even worse.

The hotel lobby has a selection of magazines to choose from, but the one on the coffee table has my name on the cover. It's a blurry picture of a woman leaving the nightclub, with me right behind her. The rare time I could be persuaded to celebrate a win is when they catch me with a woman. If they bothered to do some research, they'd know the woman is Brandy, our team photographer. I had offered her a ride home, and didn't expect someone to snap pictures.

Avoiding parties and outings isn't something I do intentionally, but it's difficult to celebrate something you had no part in. I prefer going over the games and analyzing my mistakes to find what's preventing me from getting that first goal. So that's exactly what I have planned for tonight.

Except we're in Dallas, and I'm still waiting in the hotel lobby for my room to be ready. Despite knowing not to, I take a closer look at the magazine, and read the smaller headlines.

Is Westbrook losing himself to fame? Another bad move for Toronto?

"Mr. Westbrook?"

I drop the magazine as if I'd been caught reading something illicit and head to the front desk. When I thank the concierge for the key, he shoots me a not-so-discreet wink that confuses me. Ignoring the weird interaction, I head up in the elevator to my room. Sliding my key card in the door, I waste no time heading straight for the shower.

The hot water unravels the tense muscles in my back and the thoughts of the stupid magazine. Steam wafts out of the shower behind me as I wrap a towel around my waist and run another through my hair. I've been dying to get into bed and turn on the game highlights, but I stop dead in my tracks when I see what's in my bed. Or rather who is in my bed.

What the fuck?

Clutching my towel, I take several steps back. "Sorry, did I get the wrong room key?"

I didn't. I'm sure of that since my luggage is only two feet away from me. Suddenly, the concierge's wink makes sense. The woman's long blond hair falls in waves around her face, red lips and perfect teeth forming a smile. She's lying on the king-size bed in one of the hotel-provided robes with half-eaten snack wrappers from the minibar strewn across the covers.

"The key seems perfect to me." Her mischievous smile as she sits up makes me uneasy.

"I'm not sure who you're looking for, but it's definitely not me."

"Trust me"-her eyes map every inch of my torso, lingering on the wet droplets slipping down my abdomen-"it's definitely you, Eli."

If this is a prank, I'm killing my teammates.

"I thought you'd want to celebrate tonight's win," she purrs, taking a step toward me.

The only reason I'd celebrate is if I scored, and that hasn't happened yet. I take several steps back and toward the door. "I'm sure you can find someone else who's interested."

Her brows jump so high I can tell she's never been turned down.

My refusal doesn't have her putting her clothes back on and leaving as I'd hoped. So I turn and walk out. In the hall, naked except for a towel, I head straight for a neighboring room. Aiden and I are only a few rooms apart since the rookies are paired together, and I'm hoping he's still awake.

Aiden Crawford, my best friend and teammate, isn't like me. He got his first career goal the moment he stepped onto the ice in our very first game. His second goal came that next night with an assist by me. Since he's joined the Toronto Thunder, he's been nothing short of stellar, and I couldn't be more proud. But Aiden's not one to throw a party for each goal. His ambitions extend beyond a single game, a drive he's had since he led us as captain at Dalton University.

So right now I'm hoping he's also bailed on celebrating, because hotel guests are walking in the corridor, and one has taken a particular interest in my half-naked state. If they recognize me, I'm sure cameras will start clicking.

"Aiden!" I knock harder than I should, earning even more looks when the elevator opens to a new batch of hotel guests. Fantastic.

Mid-knock, the door swings open, and Aiden eyes me with curiosity. "What's wrong?"

Before I can explain, the reason for my escape strolls out of the room, scanning the hallway for me. "That is." I gesture to the girl and barrel my way inside his hotel room.

"Again?" Aiden chuckles, closing the door. I see the phone in his hand, with his girlfriend, Summer, on a video call.

"Hey, Brooksy." She waves at me through the screen, and I wave back, clutching my towel a little tighter. Although, Summer's probably immune, since she's seen way more than she signed up for when she and Aiden started dating earlier this year. We've become great friends, and there's nothing I wouldn't do for her.

"You need security, man," Aiden says. "I'm pretty sure those people in the hall took a picture of you."

I sit on his bed and drop my head back against the headboard in defeat. All I ever wanted was to play professional hockey, but now it feels like the dream is slipping through my fingers. The extra attention and opinions wouldn't bother me if I could shake off the pressure to perform. It's a weight that conveniently snatches my ability to do the one thing I've always been good at.

"Did Eli just virtually cockblock us?" Summer asks.

Aiden shrugs and smirks at his phone. "I'm still down if you are."

I groan. You'd think them being in a long-distance relationship would give me some reprieve from the PDA.

"I think I'll pass." Summer laughs. "Have fun at your sleepover!"

I drop my head in my hands. "How am I supposed to focus on playing when I know this is the stuff that's hitting the headlines first thing tomorrow?"

Aiden tosses his phone on the nightstand and gives me a pitying look. One he does every time something stupid like this occurs. "This is some pretty shit luck, man. I can't believe people are buying into the 'golden boy turned playboy' narrative."

In an unexpected turn of events, a video posted by our team went viral. I had hesitantly agreed to film a day in the life of an NHL rookie, and the fans loved it. I'm not sure if it was the bloopers they found endearing, or maybe my workout routine was just that inspirational. But as soon as the media knew what the fans wanted, they became hungry for more. And when I was two games in with nothing on my stats sheet, the criticism started pouring in. They credited my draft to my parents' connections and discounted my talent, all within a few days. I went from being the endearing rookie to the rich playboy whose only goal is to get laid.

"It's my fault. I should have turned down the extra press when I had the chance." When our social media team approached me with ideas for more content, I could have said no. Thinking it would benefit my image rather than dampen it, I stupidly agreed.

"They would have talked you into it regardless. They need eyes on the game, especially with the ratings dropping last year."

I sigh. "'Pretty boy hockey player who can't score for shit.' That'll be the next headline."

"You've had plenty of assists. Trust me, you'll get the goal too," he assures. "Just find something that lets you breathe. Something that takes away the pressure you're feeling."

"Easier said than done. We can't all have a Summer," I mutter.

He smiles. "True, but the media only leaves me alone because of her dad. He'd shut that shit down before they tried anything."

Summer's dad is in the NHL Hall of Fame, and we were all pretty starstruck when we met him at our last Frozen Four. "Maybe I should date him," I suggest.

Aiden chuckles and tosses me an extra pair of his sweats. "Good luck with that."

When I'm changing into the sweats, my phone vibrates with a text from Coach. It's his sixth reminder about tomorrow's event. We have to be ready for bidding since the team is auctioning dates with players.

"You going to the fundraiser tomorrow?" I ask Aiden.

"It's mandatory. The whole Thunder organization is going to be there," he says.

Great.


Our flight back to Toronto this morning was more uneventful than anticipated. No new headlines and no more surprise visits from fans. The hotel even apologized for letting the woman upstairs, but they couldn’t have known since she introduced herself as my fiancée. Apparently, she attends every game, whether home or away. Her dedication to the cause would be commendable if it wasn’t so creepy.

The collar of my dress shirt suffocates me as we enter the venue.

"Relax, man." Aiden nudges me to stop pulling at my collar. "It's only a few hours, then we can head out."

"You're only saying that because you're not the one being auctioned off."

The auction happens every year, and since the older women in the crowd are the ones bidding, our PR team thought it would be great to throw me into the mix. That, or it's a bit of hazing for a rookie. Aiden got to bow out by using his girlfriend as an excuse.

"I got your back, but just know you'll make someone's grandmother very happy." He grins.

I roll my eyes just as Coach comes to stand by me, his presence alone raising panic.

"Westbrook. A minute." He gestures toward the bar.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what this is about.

When I join him by a table, he places his phone on it, revealing an article and a photo of the girl from last night leaving our hotel in a robe, and my face under yet another headline.

Toronto Thunder's rookie is out for the cookie.

Seriously? Are they hiring an intern to write these?

"I don't make a habit of reading this shit, but when the GM questions why my rookie is seen covering more magazines than he is covering the ice, I have no choice."

Crap. The general manager, Marcus Smith-Beaumont, is the hard-ass of hard-asses. If he's heard of this, I'm sure I'm the talk of the board of directors-the ones who decide whether I'm worth the advance they've paid me.

When I first got recruited, I had heard a rumor that he was against my draft to the Thunder. It isn't a norm to draft two players from the same college in one year, but it's not exactly groundbreaking either.

"There are a few articles from this month alone if you want to do some light reading." His words come out less angry than they should. I'm single-handedly tainting the rookie image, and the organization can't be happy about that. "Another scandal and another game without a goal. I don't know how many press meetings we can control if things like this continue to surface."

The bartender offers a drink, but I refuse. "It's all fabricated. I have no idea why they're spinning it this way."

"Because you're popular. That social media video of you went viral, and the people want more. It's great publicity, but not great for your career if you become the next playboy."

"That's not who I am."

"I'm sure, but the only perception the league cares about is the fans'. You need to pick up your game and keep your hotel rooms empty."

I run my hand through my hair, feeling a headache forming. "I understand."

"Get that first one out of the way, and I can downplay the press we're getting about you. Don't make the organization question whether they should have signed you. You're a strong player, Eli, I can vouch for that, but I can't do it unless you back it with some proof."

He takes the drink I had refused, downs it in one go, and walks off. The echo of his advice and a fading clink of emptied glasses circle my mind. The pressure is overwhelming.

If I stay in here another second, my head might explode. I don't stick around to find out, and bolt for the double doors, signaling to Aiden that I need a break.

And maybe a solution to all my problems.

Two

Sage

Broke ballerina.

It kind of has a ring to it.

"Auditions will be held again in the spring. We do not need any more background dancers." Aubrey Zimmerman barrels through the rotating glass doors in a flurry.

Next year? That's an entire dancing season gone. Another year older. Another stack of unpaid bills. Another has-been.

Broke, washed-up ballerina.

Not so catchy.

"Mr. Zimmerman, I'm here to audition for the swan queen."

Either he hears the desperation in my voice, or my statement is so bewildering that it stops him in his tracks. My focus lands on the back of his balding head, glistening in the sunlight. He isn't old in terms of years, but he looks rough for a thirtysomething-year-old. I guess that's what years in this industry do to a person. Some days, I feel halfway there.

When he turns, his lips tip in a curve that makes me tilt my head to assess it. But then the sound that comes out of his mouth drops my shoulders.

Aubrey Zimmerman is laughing at me. "The swan queen? You've stopped the artistic director of Nova Ballet Theatre to declare yourself as the lead for Swan Lake?"

Well, when he says it like that, it sounds laughable. But even with the disdain dripping from his words, I stand tall. It took me three hours to get to this audition. Three. The man sitting next to me on the bus had a cold that I'm sure I caught when he sneezed on me. As if on cue, a chill runs down my spine, though that might be the product of Zimmerman's icy gaze.

"Yes," I squeak. I hope my posture is doing enough for my confidence, because my expression has dropped into the depths of hell.

He chuckles. "When I start taking orders from nobodies on the street, I'll let you know. But thanks for the laugh. I really needed that today."

Zimmerman answers his ringing phone, dismissing me as he mutters something about never holding auditions in the crack of Ontario. Huntsville was the only city with an open audition because auditions in Toronto are invite-only, so I arrived two hours prior but had to wait in the line that wrapped around the building. By the time I made it to the door, they ended auditions early. They didn't bother offering the rest of us another audition time.