Alpha on the Ice

Chapter 1

Sloane

The coffee is cold, but I drink it anyway because I'm too broke to buy another one. The microwave in the breakroom has a sign taped to it that says "Out of Order" in faded marker, and has for the last six months. I'm pretty sure no one even remembers who wrote it anymore.The cursor blinks at me. Deadline is in four hours, and I've got nothing. Another puff piece about another hockey player's charity work. Another eight hundred words of fluff that will be forgotten by the time the paper hits the stands tomorrow morning.My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could write about the Hellions' latest win. I could write about the rookie who scored his first goal. I could write about the weather in the arena, for all anyone cares.Instead, I type: "Rhys Kincaid remains an enigma."I delete it.I type: "The captain of the Boston Hellions is a study in contradictions."I delete that too.The truth is, I don't know anything about Rhys Kincaid. No one does. The press calls him a "freak" for his aggressive playing style and his habit of disappearing after games. To his fans, he is a hero because he scores. But no one, not a single soul in the entire league, has ever gotten close enough to know what he actually thinks, feels, or does when the cameras are off.And that's exactly why Marcus Webb wants me to c***k him.A shadow falls over my desk, and I look up to find Maria, the office assistant, hovering with the kind of sympathetic grimace that usually precedes bad news."Marcus wants you," she says, her voice low enough that the other reporters in the bullpen won't hear. But they all look up anyway. They always do. Ever since the alderman story fell apart, I've been a spectacle. A cautionary tale they can point to and whisper, "Don't end up like her."I stand up, smoothing down my wrinkled blazer. "Any idea what it's about?" I ask, even though I already know. Marcus doesn't call me into his office for pleasantries.Maria shakes her head and scurries away, clearly not wanting to be caught in the crossfire.I walk to the glass-walled office at the far end of the bullpen. Marcus sits behind his cluttered desk, sleeves rolled up to reveal hairy forearms. He's not looking at me when I enter. He's staring at his monitor, scrolling through something with a grim expression.I close the door behind me and stand in front of his desk. He makes me wait a full thirty seconds before he speaks."Sit down, Jette."I sit. Marcus finally looks at me, and I see the exhaustion in his eyes. He's been doing this for thirty years. He's seen reporters come and go, careers made and ruined. I know he didn't get to where he is by being soft."I'm going to give you a choice," he says, leaning back in his chair. "And before you say anything, I want you to hear me out."My stomach tightens. "Marcus...""I said hear me out."I shut my mouth.He slides a folder across the desk toward me. I open it, and my eyes land on a grainy photo of a man... Rhys Kincaid in his game-day uniform, his silver-blue eyes staring into the camera. "Rhys Kincaid," Marcus says. "Captain of the Hellions. The league's most notorious bad boy. He's a PR nightmare, and his agent just reached out to us."I blink. "Us? The Boston Puck Report? Why would they reach out to us?"Marcus's lips curl into something that isn't quite a smile. "Because the bigger outlets have already burned that bridge. Kincaid has a reputation for being hostile to the press. But his agent...some new kid, fresh out of law school...thinks a smaller publication might be willing to play ball. They're offering a limited-access interview for a fluff piece. Rehabilitation of his image."I stare at him. "And you want me to write it?""I want you to do more than write it." Marcus leans forward, his elbows on the desk. "I want you to get the exclusive. The real story. Behind the scenes, off the record, whatever it takes. This is the kind of piece that puts a paper like ours on the map."I'm already shaking my head. "He won't talk to me. He won't talk to anyone. He's famous for it.""He's famous for being a difficult asshole," Marcus agrees. "But he's also the most talked-about player in the league. The public is obsessed with him, and we have an opportunity to capitalize on that. I need this, Jette."Something cold settles in my chest. "You need this. You're not the one who's going to get spat on in the parking lot."Marcus's eyes narrow. "Don't give me that. I've been in this game longer than you've been alive. I know the risks.""Do you know what happened the last time I tried to do a real story?" The words come out sharper than I intended. "Do you remember the alderman?"The air in the room changes. Marcus's jaw tightens, and I see a flicker of something...regret? pity?...cross his face. But it's gone in an instant."I remember a promising reporter who didn't have the sources to back up her claims," he says flatly. "I remember a story that fell apart because you trusted the wrong person and ended up with nothing but a ruined reputation and a mountain of legal fees."I flinch. It's the truth. It's a truth I've been running from for two years."You know that wasn't all my fault," I say, but the words sound weak even to my own ears."I know it wasn't," Marcus says, and his voice softens just slightly. "But it happened, and you've been coasting ever since. I'm not going to let you waste your potential on puff pieces forever. This is your chance, Jette. Your last chance."He leans back, watching me carefully."So here's the choice. You write the fluff piece, you get the access, and you find the real story. You bring me something I can actually use to save this paper. You prove you still have the instincts I hired you for. Or..."He lets the word hang in the air, heavy as a guillotine blade."Or what?""Or you can clean out your desk on Friday.”