Out of play

Episode 2

That same afternoon, the atmosphere in the office grew tense once again. The air inside the glass enclosure seemed to have thickened, charged with a static electricity that foretold the storm about to break.

"You've got to be kidding me, Emma! This is a damn joke!"

Gabriel barged into her office, shoving the door open without even knocking. The impact of the handle against the rubber stopper echoed like a gunshot through the pristine space. He arrived with his breathing ragged and his team jacket slightly unzipped, revealing the gray training shirt clinging to his chest. He looked visibly agitated, his eyes bloodshot from the public humiliation he felt he was enduring, the veins in his neck bulging with suppressed rage.

Emma took a deep breath—a slow, almost imperceptible movement—looked up from the budget documents she was reviewing, and maintained a composure that bordered on insulting to the player. Her calm was the mirror against which Gabriel was smashing his hysteria.

"In this office, it is customary to knock before entering, Gabriel," she said, her voice slow, dense, and taut. "I am not one of those weekend flings you can just drop in on whenever you feel like it. Now, tell me quickly what I can do for you, because my schedule is quite tight and I have little time for drama."

She was getting thoroughly sick of the player's childish attitude.

"What can you do for me? Explain to me what this damn rumor means!" he roared, slamming both hands onto the edge of the mahogany desk and leaning over her. "It can't be true that my replacement for the winter season is going to be that bland Stephen Graham! That guy doesn't have half the charisma or talent I have on the ice! He's a complete nobody to the sponsors!"

Emma frowned, dropped her pen with a sharp click onto the wooden desk, and stood up elegantly, looking at him from where she stood, erect and unblinking. She was genuinely confused because, while it was true they would need to find a new face for the watch brand, she had never decided it would be Graham. Gabriel was right about one thing: that guy was like boiled chicken—completely bland, incapable of selling a glass of water to a thirsty man in the desert.

"Who on earth gave you that information? We haven't officially announced anything to the press or the team yet. Executive decisions aren't debated in the hallway."

"The damn coach told me near the locker rooms! You can't do this to me, Emma! You can't replace me with that i***t who can't even give a decent interview without getting tongue-tied!"

"Lower your voice right now," Emma warned, taking a step forward and pointing her index finger at the transparent glass wall facing the assistants' area. "Everyone on this damn floor can hear you shouting like a spoiled brat who had his favorite toy taken away. Don't force me to call security to have you escorted out of the building. You know damn well I'll do it."

Gabriel took another step toward her, closing the distance between them until Emma could smell his expensive woody cologne mixed with the heat of his skin, attempting to intimidate her with his imposing frame. He was dead wrong; it would take far more than the shadow of a frustrated athlete to make her back down a single millimeter.

"You're doing this out of spite, Emma. This is personal between you and me because of what happened this morning in the parking lot. You can't stand that I won't play along with you."

Emma shook her head, letting out a sigh of genuine boredom at her client's boundless egomania.

"Don't flatter yourself, Gabriel. This isn't personal; it's simply business—a word your brain clearly cannot process amidst all the partying, alcohol, and skirts. You breached the conduct clause of your contract, and I am merely enforcing the financial and contractual consequences you signed off on."

"I'm your best client, the reason you got that promotion," he muttered, narrowing his eyes, trying to wound her professional pride.

"You were my best client," she corrected in a icy whisper, holding his gaze without a shadow of doubt. "Until you decided it was more fun to become a constant liability and an imminent threat to the finances and reputation of this agency."

A heavy, dense silence filled the room, broken only by the soft, steady hum of the ventilation system. Gabriel clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles turning white, realizing that his usual tactics of charm, condescension, and physical intimidation were not going to work on her this time. Emma was a wall of ice.

"You're going to regret this, Emma. I swear you'll beg me to come back when you see the numbers drop," he muttered, his voice laced with a dangerous, dark promise.

Emma met his gaze with unshakeable serenity, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Then go out onto the ice and prove me wrong. Work hard, score goals, and win games. Until then, you're off the campaign."

Gabriel said nothing more. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the office, slamming the door so hard that the glass walls rattled and the papers on the assistants' desks fluttered. Emma stood frozen for a few seconds, staring at the empty doorway he had left behind. And that subsequent silence... That lack of actual arguments from Gabriel produced a strange, unsettling tightness in her chest. She knew this wasn't just a simple tantrum. The war had only just begun.

Gabriel Peralta was not used to losing in any area of life. For as long as he could remember, his raw talent with a hockey stick and his undeniable good looks had paved a red-carpet path where mistakes were forgiven with a crooked smile and offenses were erased with an autograph on a jersey.

Because of that, the fact that Emma had cut him from the most important campaign of the semester—the official face of the Chronos watch line—was a direct, crushing blow to his inflated pride, one his mind simply refused to process. He always got what he wanted, both on the ice and in his personal life. He just needed to give it time; no woman had ever resisted his charm when he set his mind to it, and Emma would be no exception. He could swear it on his career.

"Did that woman really have the nerve to kick you off the watch campaign?" asked one of the team's defensemen as he unlaced his skates in the locker room, where the heavy smell of sweat, damp leather, and disinfectant hung in the air.

It was Logan. They had attended university together in Boston and had both been drafted by the Montreal team at the same time. They had practically built their careers side by side, sharing losses, victories, and late nights out. They were best friends, which was why Gabriel knew that if he could rely on anyone to give him the raw truth, it was Logan.

"It's just a one-week preventive suspension, some bureaucratic nonsense from the agency to appease investors after that nightclub mess," Gabriel replied, tossing his dirty jersey into the metal hamper with unnecessary force. The metallic clang echoed throughout the locker room.

Nobody in the room bought it. The other players exchanged knowing looks in complete silence; everyone in the league knew Emma's ironclad reputation and understood that when she made an executive decision, there was no turning back and no room for negotiation.

"You should be more careful, man," commented the team captain, Daniel Strike, a thirty-five-year-old veteran with a nose slightly crooked from old games and plenty of experience dealing with the tabloids. "Emma has saved you from ending up on the front page of gossip rags and losing multi-million dollar contracts countless times. You should show a little more gratitude before you stretch that cord until it snaps."

Gabriel didn't reply. He set his jaw and feigned deep concentration on adjusting the leather straps of his duffel bag. Irritation burned in his throat like acid because deep down, in that dark corner he hated to acknowledge, he knew the captain was spot on. That absolute dependence he had on Emma's judgment, protection, and professionalism infuriated him more than any rival provocation on the ice.

"I don't need her to shine for me to stand out on the ice," he finally said aloud, jumping to his feet to head toward the showers. "My game speaks for itself. Tomorrow at practice, I'm going to tear up the net, and the agency will have to apologize to me on their knees."

Yet, despite his arrogant words and the confident facade he put on for the team, doubt had already taken root like a weed in his mind. He had known Emma for three years. He had seen her dismantle the careers of undisciplined athletes without batting an eye. He knew all too well that she wasn't one to make empty threats in a fit of rage; if she said she would find a replacement, she would move heaven and earth until someone else took his spot. And the mere thought of seeing another man on the city's billboards, taking the space that belonged to him right beside Emma's firm, turned his stomach in a way that had nothing to do with hockey.