Off the Record : Episode 1

"New Jersey, Same Trouble"

Larry Campbell wasn’t technically supposed to be in the locker room corridor. But Mel had triple-booked the media suite, the lighting in the gym was awful, and the kit manager had already threatened to barricade the hallway with laundry bins if one more PR shoot overran. So here he was, clutching a branded water bottle, a club welcome folder, and a second coffee he didn’t technically owe anyone.

Joel Cross was due at ten. New winger ― except in hockey it was just “forward” ― thirty-four, ex-Toronto, and famously allergic to smiling in press photos. His last club had called him “disciplined.” The press had called him “aloof.” Larry called him: a PR headache with arms like a Greek statue and a very public divorce behind him.

The locker door opened.

Joel stepped out wearing the new jersey like it was a punishment. Collar still tucked. Socks mismatched. He looked like a man who could win a fight and then apologise for it in a post-game interview without blinking. And he was taller than Larry expected ― and somehow, scruffier.

Larry raised his coffee. “Welcome to the Capital Wolves. You’re officially one of us now. Sorry in advance.”

Joel gave a short nod, eyes flicking to the camera setup being fussed over by Mel at the far end of the hallway. “Do I need to talk, or just pose?”

“Just pose,” Larry said. “The talking comes later. After you’ve earned your media day sticker.”

Joel actually smiled at that ― tiny, crooked. Like he didn’t mean to let it out. Larry felt something twist low in his gut.

He held out the coffee. “Figured you might need this. Black, no sugar ― took a gamble.”

Joel took it without comment, sipping once. “Decent gamble.”

Larry handed over the welcome folder. “That’s your media pack, social calendar, charity nights, club hashtags, and a warning not to tweet anything mad until after 10 p.m.”

Joel arched a brow. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Last guy tweeted his ex-wife’s recipe for chilli and caused a regional scandal.”

Joel snorted. “Noted.”

They walked slowly toward the setup, footsteps echoing on the polished concrete. Joel looked ahead, but Larry noticed the way his fingers brushed the sleeve of the folder. Like he wanted to hold something that wasn’t paper.

“You from Ottawa?” Joel asked casually.

“Grew up outside,” Larry said. “In the bit with more cows than people. Moved into town when I realised my life goal didn’t involve snowmobiles or marrying a cousin.”

Joel let out a short laugh ― the real kind. “Fair enough.”

“Besides,” Larry added, “you ever try to run PR for an ice rink that hosts both junior hockey and speed dating Tuesdays? I did. Once.”

They reached the lights. Mel waved them in.

Joel looked sideways. “This going to take long?”

“Depends. Can you smoulder on command?”

Joel deadpanned, “No.”

Larry gave him a slow grin. “You’re gonna fit right in.”