Power Play Heartbreak

I’d been covering the Strathmore Strikers for three years, long enough to know when a player needed an image overhaul. Gideon Russo, their veteran goalie, was a PR nightmare. Fresh off a suspension for punching an opponent during a game, his gruff exterior and perpetual scowl made him the league’s favorite bad boy. My editor’s words echoed in my mind: “Get Russo to agree to a feature. Show the world he’s not just a goon.”

So there I was, standing outside the Strikers’ practice facility, waiting for the man himself. The air was crisp, the scent of freshly cut grass mingling with the distant hum of traffic. My heart hammered against my ribs as I rehearsed my pitch. *Just be charming*, I told myself. *You can do this.*

Gideon emerged, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He moved with a quiet intensity, his dark eyes scanning the parking lot before landing on me. I straightened, pasting on my brightest smile. “Gideon! Hi, I’m Cassidy Reed. We spoke on the phone?”

He grunted, his face an impassive mask. “I remember. What do you want, Ms. Reed?”

“It’s Cassidy, please. And I have a proposition for you.” I took a deep breath, plunging ahead before I lost my nerve. “Your suspension’s hurt your reputation. The fans think you’re a loose cannon. I can help with that.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I don’t need your help.”

“But you do. The team’s considering trading you at the deadline. A little positive press could change their minds.” I held up a hand to stop his protest. “Hear me out. We stage a relationship. A few public appearances, some staged photos, maybe an interview or two. Show the world you’re not just a hockey thug. Show them you’ve got a softer side.”

Gideon’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing. “A fake relationship? With *you*?”

I nodded, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Exactly. I’m a respected reporter. If we’re seen together, people will start to see you differently. It’s a win-win. You get to stay with the Strikers, and I get an exclusive story.”

He was silent for a long moment, eyes locked on the ground. When he finally looked up, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—hesitation? Hope? “Fine,” he grunted. “But I have conditions. No kissing, no cuddling. This is strictly professional.”

Relief washed over me, so potent it left me lightheaded. “Deal. We’ll start tomorrow. I’ll set up a photoshoot at the rink.”

The next day, we met at the Strathmore Arena, the air saturated with the aroma of popcorn and stale sweat. I’d chosen a simple setup: Gideon in his goalie gear, me in a Strikers jersey, posing together against the boards. The photographer, a cheerful woman named Jen, beamed at us. “Okay, lovebirds! Let’s see some chemistry!”

Gideon stood stiffly beside me, his hand hovering near my waist without actually touching. I leaned into him, my smile bright and forced. “Relax,” I murmured through gritted teeth. “This is supposed to look natural.”

“I don’t do ‘natural,’” he growled back. “I stop pucks. I don’t play pretend.”

Jen clicked away, her camera shutter snapping rapid-fire. “Great! Now, Gideon, put your arm around her. Cassidy, tilt your head toward him. Perfect!”

I could feel the tension radiating off Gideon in waves, his body rigid against mine. “See?” I whispered, my voice sweet as sugar. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”

He didn’t answer, his jaw clenched tight. But as the session wore on, he started to loosen up, his touches becoming less hesitant, his smiles less strained. By the end, we were almost believable as a couple, his arm slung casually over my shoulders, my head resting against his chest.

“Beautiful!” Jen crowed, lowering her camera. “I think we got some great shots.”

As we left the rink, Gideon’s shoulders seemed lighter, his steps less heavy. I risked a glance at him, surprised to find a genuine smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “That wasn’t terrible,” he admitted grudgingly. “You’re not half bad at this, Reed.”

I grinned, bumping his shoulder with mine. “Told you I could help. Just wait until our next event. You’ll be a PR pro in no time.”

He snorted, but there was no real heat behind it. “Don’t push your luck.” A pause, then, softer: “Thanks. For doing this.”

My heart fluttered in my chest, warmth spreading through my veins. “Anytime, Russo. Anytime.”

The next few weeks passed in a blur of staged dates and carefully orchestrated outings. Gideon and I fell into a comfortable rhythm, our fauxmance playing out across social media and gossip columns. He grumbled about the intrusion into his private life, but even he couldn’t deny the shift in public opinion. The comments on my articles softened, the vitriol replaced by curiosity and, in some cases, outright support.

“He’s growing on them,” I said one afternoon, scrolling through the latest batch of tweets. We were sitting in a coffee shop near the rink, Gideon hunched over his phone while I worked on my laptop. “Look at this one: ‘Cassidy and Gideon are goals! #CoupleGoals #StrikersLove.’”

He grunted, not looking up from his screen. “I don’t care about hashtags. I care about stopping pucks.”

“Of course you do,” I said, hiding a smile behind my mug. “But it wouldn’t hurt to lean into this a little. The fans are eating it up.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“A road trip,” I said, trying to sound casual. “The team’s playing in Chicago next week. I could tag along, do some behind-the-scenes coverage. It would be great for your image.”

Gideon finally looked up, his dark eyes narrowing. “You want to come on a road trip? With the team?”

“Not with the team,” I said quickly. “I’d fly separately, stay in my own hotel room. But we could be seen together in public, maybe grab dinner after the game. It would really sell the relationship.”

He watched me for a long moment, his face an inscrutable mask. “Fine,” he said at last. “But you’re not stepping foot on the team bus. And you’re paying for your own meals.”

I grinned, victorious. “Deal.”

The Chicago trip started off smoothly enough. I met Gideon at a cozy Italian restaurant the night before the game, the air buzzing with the clink of glasses and low conversation. He was tense, his shoulders tight beneath his button-down shirt, but he played his part well, holding my hand across the table and smiling for the handful of fans who approached us.

“You’re a natural at this,” I teased as we walked back to our hotel. City lights sparkled around us, stretching our shadows across the pavement. “Who knew Gideon Russo could be such a charmer?”

He rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get used to it, Reed. This is just for show.”

“Obviously,” I said, my own smile widening. “But it’s kind of nice, isn’t it? Having someone to talk to after a long day?”

Gideon stayed quiet, his focus locked on the path ahead. But his hand tightened around mine, his calloused palm warm against my skin.

The next night, after a grueling game that ended in a narrow Strikers win, I found myself restless and wide awake. The hotel was quiet, the only sound the low hum of the air conditioner. I paced my room for a while before deciding to venture downstairs in search of a midnight snack.

The kitchen was deserted, the stainless steel appliances gleaming under the fluorescent lights. I rummaged through the fridge, emerging triumphantly with a container of leftover pasta and a bottle of sparkling water. I was just popping it into the microwave when a voice sounded behind me.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

I jumped, whirling around to find Gideon standing in the doorway. He was wearing sweatpants and a faded Strikers t-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. “Russo,” I breathed, pressing a hand to my chest. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“It’s fine,” I said, waving him in. “I was just looking for a snack. Want some pasta?”

He hesitated for a moment before nodding, crossing the kitchen to lean against the counter beside me. “Thanks.”

We waited in comfortable silence while the microwave whirred, garlic and tomato aromas filling the kitchen. “You played well tonight,” I said finally, glancing up at him. “That save in the third period was incredible.”

Gideon shrugged, his attention fixed on the microwave door. “I got lucky.”

“Don’t do that,” I said, my voice gentle but firm. “Don’t downplay what you did out there. You carried the team tonight.”

He looked at me then, his dark eyes intense. “You sound like you mean that.”

“I do,” I said simply. “You’re a great goalie, Russo. One of the best I’ve ever seen.”