“Do I get a script, or is this improv?”
“Oh, it’s improv.” I smile sweetly. “Just follow my lead. Smile a lot. And maybe the only thing you ‘deck’ over the next two weeks is the halls.”
He gives a low chuckle. “I… I guess I can do that.”
“No guessing, Penn. Besides, this isn’t just about me.” I poke his chest for emphasis—big mistake. He’s solid and warm and right there, for a second, I completely forget what this conversation is about.
His eyes flick down to where my finger lingers. “Not just about you?” he repeats, brow raised, waiting for me to enlighten him.
I pull my hand back like I’ve touched a live wire. “Right. It’s not just about me. I’m helping you too.”
“Oh, sure.” He nods, playing along. “Helping me get a good night’s sleep in a room without a possessed cat, but a terrifying elf doll. Very generous of you.”
“No,” I explain, voice firmer. “I’m helping you clean up your image.”
That gets his attention. His eyes sharpen, light up in that way people’s eyes do when they see something they didn’t expect. “You think you can do that?”
“You want to stay on the Bucks, don’t you? Secure your position. I mean, it wasn’t all that long ago that you got called up, right?”
He rubs a hand across his face, suddenly looking every bit the exhausted man behind the jersey. “Right. I almost forgot your dad was my AHL coach.”
“Okay, so a fiancée will look good on you. Make you seem stable.”
“I’m stable,” he defends and I arch a brow that has Santa written all over it. “I mean, sort of.”
“We’re doing this, then?”
“I…guess. So, it’s our secret. We tell no one it’s fake?”
“No one.”
“I should probably tell Elaine. She’s trustworthy. I just don’t want her getting excited, you know.” A pained look comes over him. “It’s not like anyone really takes anything she says seriously, anyway.”
That sadness on his face hurts my soul. He used to get teased terribly about his crazy aunt, until he grew three sizes in two months. The bullying stopped then and there.
“Okay,” I agree and extend my hand like we’re sealing a dubious business deal. “Welcome to probably the worst idea I’ve had since tequila on New Year’s, 2019.”
He slides his palm against mine, rough and warm. “Are you sure it wasn’t the turkey disaster of 2024?”
“Oh my god,” I practically shriek. “You know about that?”
The second that question is out of my mouth, I cringe. Of course, he knows about it. Everyone knows. It was on every major news network, followed by a week of memes, GIFs, and late-night comedy segments titled #GobbleGate.
“Like you said,” he answers softly, “You too know a little something about going viral.” He pauses, voice dipping lower. “I only saw the highlight clips. What exactly happened, and are you…okay?” His tone is so sincere, so unexpectedly gentle, it disarms me. There's no mockery in his eyes, no smugness. Just quiet understanding.
I exhale slowly, my shoulders dropping. “I used to work at a boutique PR firm in Boston. Brightside Creative. We did big campaigns. I was on the rise—smart, ambitious, and trusted with a big holiday campaign for a high-profile client. A gourmet grocery chain launching their new farm-to-table product line. I wore actual heels to work.”
He smirks and glances down. “I like your reindeer slippers.”
I lift one foot. “I must say, I am rocking them. But seriously, the Thanksgiving event. A stunt, really. I pitched a ‘celebrity turkey trot’. Influencers racing in turkey costumes to raise awareness for a gourmet grocery brand’s holiday line. It was supposed to be festive. Wholesome. Shareable.”
Penn raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess. One of the turkeys turned on the others.”
I groan. “Worse. One tripped on a fake wishbone centerpiece and crashed into a cranberry sauce display. Took out a ring light, two cameras, and an elderly blogger named SpicyGranny74. The video hit two million views in an hour. #TurkeyTrotFail. #GobbleGate. I was on BuzzFeed. BuzzFeed, Penn.”
Penn’s lips twitch. “Was SpicyGranny74 okay?”
“She started her own podcast, so yeah she’s the winner here. As for me, the grocery chain pulled their campaign, Brightside fired me, and no one in Boston PR will touch me with a ten-foot selfie stick.” I try to laugh it off, but my voice cracks on the last word.