All the Right Angles

Imogen Finch hit ‘send’ on the email before she could talk herself out of it. The attached video file—a candid, exasperated critique of the Portland Prowlers’ new corporate sponsor, recorded in a fit of pique after their latest tone-deaf ad campaign—felt like a small act of rebellion. She’d meant it only for her sister’s eyes. By morning, it was everywhere.

“Finch, my office. Now.” Coach Reynolds’ voice crackled through her phone before her alarm had even rung.

Twelve hours later, she sat stiffly on a plush sofa in the Prowlers’ executive suite, watching the view count on her leaked video climb past seven digits. Across from her, Helena Andersson—the team captain, a woman whose calm under pressure bordered on unnerving—tapped a pen against her knee in a precise, measured rhythm. Helena had been called in for damage control. Imogen suspected she was about to become part of the collateral.

“You realize,” Helena said, her voice low enough that the PR handlers hovering by the door had to strain to hear, “that ‘Vultures Capital’ is unlikely to appreciate being called ‘soulless scavengers picking clean the carcass of a once-proud franchise’?”

Imogen winced. In the cold light of day—and under the scrutiny of the team’s increasingly purple-faced corporate liaison—the line sounded less like righteous indignation and more like career suicide. “In my defense, their new mascot tried to sell me life insurance during warm-ups yesterday. While I was *on* the ice.”

A tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched Helena’s lips. “Bold. Ill-advised, but bold.” She set the pen down, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “I have a proposal. The press is already painting you as difficult. Unpredictable. They’re speculating about locker room tension, morale—all of it nonsense, but nonsense that sticks.”

Imogen braced herself. “What do you need me to do?”

“Smile,” Helena said. “Often. Preferably while holding my hand.”

The room went very quiet. Imogen blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“We give them a better story,” Helena said, as if explaining a particularly straightforward power play. “A distraction. A veteran star and her captain, navigating the pressures of the season together. The public loves a romance.”

“Are you suggesting,” Imogen said slowly, “that we pretend to date? For the cameras?”

“It’s a temporary arrangement,” Helena said. “Six weeks. Enough time for the Vultures Capital story to die down, for the narrative to shift. We’ll start with the team gala tonight. Minimal effort, maximum reward.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Imogen said, but she was already mentally reviewing the endorsement clauses in her contract. Helena wasn’t just the captain; she was the face of the franchise, a carefully cultivated brand of steely Scandinavian resolve. The idea was ludicrous—and, Imogen realized with dawning horror, just plausible enough to work. “They’ll never buy it. We’ve played together for three seasons. If there was something between us, they’d have speculated by now.”

“People see what you tell them to see,” Helena said. She stood, smoothing the front of her suit jacket. “We’ll arrive together tonight. Be seen talking, laughing. Let them fill in the rest.” She paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder. “Wear the blue suit. The one you wore to the All-Star draft. It photographs well.”

The gala was a blur of too-bright lights and speculative glances. Imogen spent the first hour plastered to Helena’s side, her smile fixed in place, her hand tucked into the crook of Helena’s elbow. Cameras flashed at irregular intervals, leaving starbursts behind her eyelids.

“You’re pulling my sleeve out of shape,” Helena murmured, her lips barely moving. To anyone watching, it would look like she was sharing an intimate joke.

“Your elbow is remarkably pointy,” Imogen whispered back. “Do you have a finisher’s medal hidden in there?”

Helena’s shoulder brushed hers as she laughed—a quiet, contained sound that seemed to catch the attention of every reporter in the room. Cameras swung toward them. Imogen held her breath and let Helena reel her in closer, her hand settling warm and steady against the small of her back.

“Relax,” Helena said. “You look like you’re awaiting execution.”

“I’m starting to think I might prefer it.” Imogen reached for her phone, thumb hovering over the camera app. She’d promised her sister a full report. The first video had been an accident. These next ones—the ones she’d record in the privacy of her hotel room, late at night, her voice pitched low—would be a choice. “Do you ever get tired of it? The performance?”

Helena’s gaze swept the room, lingering on the cluster of reporters by the bar. “All the world’s a stage, Finch. The trick is remembering who you are when the curtain falls.” Her hand tightened briefly at Imogen’s waist. “Smile. We’re on.”

“Smile. We’re on.”

The words became a mantra over the next few weeks, a silent refrain Imogen repeated to herself during press conferences and staged photo ops. Smile when Helena leaned in close to murmur a comment about the weather. Smile when her hand lingered at Imogen’s back a beat too long as they posed for the cameras. Smile when the headlines shifted from ‘Prowlers Star Slams Sponsor’ to ‘Prowlers Power Couple: A Match Made on Ice’.

“I’m starting to feel like a trained seal,” Imogen confessed to her sister late one night, her phone propped against a water glass on the desk of her latest hotel room. The Prowlers were three games into a grueling West Coast road trip. Outside her window, the lights of downtown Los Angeles glittered cold and indifferent. “Bark on command, clap for the cameras, hope they throw me a fish at the end of the night.”

Her sister’s response came in the form of a string of laughing emojis and a short video clip of her new puppy attempting to climb the living room curtains. Imogen watched it twice, the tightness in her chest easing a fraction. She recorded a quick reply—her own tired smile, a shot of the view from her window, a promise to call after the Anaheim game—and hit send.

She was still sitting there, staring at the screen, when a soft tap sounded at the door.

Helena stood in the hallway, still in her travel suit, a tablet tucked under one arm. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“It’s the pillows,” Imogen said, stepping back to let her in. “They’re either made of concrete or marshmallows. I’ve yet to find a middle ground.”

Helena’s lips twitched. “I’ll have a word with housekeeping. See if they can source something in the ‘adequately supportive yet yielding’ range.” She set the tablet on the desk, angling the screen toward Imogen. “Film from tonight’s third period. I wanted to review the Ducks’ power play before tomorrow’s morning skate.”

“Ah, the glamour of life on the road.” Imogen pulled out the desk chair for her, leaning over her shoulder as Helena queued up the footage. The familiar scents of hotel soap and Helena’s citrus-and-amber perfume wrapped around her. “Find anything interesting?”

“Look at their zone entry.” Helena pointed to the screen, her finger hovering over the Ducks’ left winger. “They’re overloading the right side, using the defenseman as a decoy. If we can force them to the left earlier, we can cut off the pass before it reaches the blue line.”

Imogen leaned closer, her shoulder grazing Helena’s. “We could adjust the box coverage. Drop the weak-side forward deeper, have her take away that passing lane.”

“Exactly.” Helena advanced the footage frame by frame, the play unfolding in flickers of motion. “We’ll run through it at practice. Make sure Svensson is on the same page.”

They spent the next hour dissecting the Ducks’ strategy, the shared language of the game flowing easily between them. At some point Imogen dragged a chair over, her knee bumping Helena’s under the desk as they debated the finer points of defensive positioning. When the footage ended, Helena closed the tablet, a satisfied glint in her eye. “I think we’ve got our game plan.”

Imogen smiled, a genuine one this time. “Just another day at the office.”

“Speaking of offices,” Helena said, her tone turning dry, “I believe we’re scheduled for a breakfast interview with ESPN tomorrow. Try not to yawn directly into the microphone.”

“The things I do for this team,” Imogen muttered, but there was no heat behind it. The faux relationship had done its job—the sponsor story had faded, replaced by a steady stream of speculation about their supposed romance. The scrutiny was relentless, but with Helena beside her, it felt manageable. More than manageable. It felt, increasingly, like something else entirely.

“Get some rest, Finch.” Helena stood, gathering her tablet. “We’ll need you sharp tomorrow.”

Imogen walked her to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “Helena?”

“Yes?”

The question hovered on the tip of Imogen’s tongue—the one she’d been circling for days, the one that kept her up long after Helena had retreated to her own room. “Never mind. Good night.”

Helena studied her for a long moment, her expression neutral. “Good night, Imogen.”