The Pucking Wrong Date: A Hockey Romance (The Pucking Wrong Series Book 3)
Chapter 1

19 YEARS OLD

I stared at the picture on the dressing room table, a snapshot from the day I’d signed my first contract.

From the day I’d signed my life away.

Or should I say the day Mama had signed my life away. Because at nine years old I hadn’t been old enough to do that for myself.

In the picture, my mother–Jolette as she liked me to call her now–and I were both wearing twin smiles, a pen in her hand. Her smile was because she was about to make millions off me. My smile…was because she seemed happy with me for once in my life.

I would have given anything to go back in time, to right before that contract was signed. I would have torn it up, and run from the room. I would have disappeared.

I wouldn’t have even cared if I’d died.

Because it would have meant…I was free.

I flung the picture down in disgust, enjoying the sound of glass breaking. Not that it would matter.

Somewhere, there was a dressing room rider, that I’d never seen, that made it so this stupid fucking picture was waiting for me at every venue.

I rubbed at my chest. At nineteen you weren’t supposed to have chest pain, but here we were.

We were in New York tonight, and I was about to play for a packed house at Madison Square Garden.

But if this chest pain kept up, I wasn’t going to be playing anywhere.

I sank down on the padded bench, exhaustion seeping through my bones. I’d been on tour for…how long?

It felt like forever. It felt like I was a rat on one of those wheels, destined to collapse because I couldn’t stop running myself to death.

I rubbed my hands along my legs, struggling to replace my composure. I could hear the faint sound of the roaring crowd, and I was already dreading the blinding lights.

This was a small venue compared to where they normally had me play, but there were still twenty thousand people out there.

Jolette and Marco were furious about the size.

When was the last time I’d eaten? When was the last time I’d done anything remotely in the realm of taking care of myself?

I was so fucking tired.

The door to the dressing room swung open, and my mother entered. She was dressed in her usual outfit of the most expensive designer clothes money could buy, her demeanor as cold and demanding as ever.

“Get up. You’re on in five,” she hissed, staring down at me with her nose wrinkled up, like I was a splash of mud that had gotten on her pristine white Chanel coat.

“And while you’re getting ready, think about this shitshow.” She threw down her phone where there was an article displayed from some news site, speculating I’d been high at a recent show.

They weren’t wrong.

“If you have to be a weak little brat…” she said snidely, tossing me the bottle of pills she’d forced down my throat for years. I took them willingly now before shows and appearances; I couldn’t get through a show without them. “Then you need to control yourself better. That’s all you need is more bad fucking publicity.”

A wave of shame sliced through my skin, like it always did when she pointed out all my deficiencies. No matter what I did…I was a disappointment.

There was a knock on the door and Marco opened it without waiting for anyone to tell him to come in. I stiffened at his appearance. He wasn’t supposed to be at this show tonight. I wasn’t supposed to have to deal with him too. A bead of sweat dripped down my spine and my hands began to tremble.

Marco’s gaze darted to the bottle in my hand and his smarmy grin widened. “Getting ready for the show, princess?”

The word “princess” made me want to vomit. It’s what he whispered to me when he…a sob built up in my chest and the edges of my vision darkened.

Stop it, I told myself fiercely. I couldn’t think about that right now. I had to go out on stage.

I unscrewed the cap and swallowed a few of the pills, hoping it would bring the calm I so desperately needed.

The problem was that it was starting to take more and more of the pills to give me the numbness I craved.

My mother watched me, a small, smug smile on her face that made me want to scream, destroy the room…destroy myself.

Even more than I already was.

“A shot or two will finish the job,” Marco said casually as he walked over and grabbed a bottle of vodka and poured it into a shot glass. He meant that it would kick in with the pills and get me to the numbness I required for the show…but it fit right in with my current thought process. Finish the job…

He handed the shot glass to me, making sure his fingers slid against mine when he did it, and I tried to hold in the revulsion and fear his touch gave me.

I threw the vodka back, not even noticing the burn. Or maybe it wasn’t that I didn’t notice it. Maybe it was that I liked the hurt.

There it was.

I could feel the numbness sliding through me, erasing all the nerves, and the nausea, and the pain.

My high always started with a subtle warmth spreading through my body, like a comforting embrace that chased away the cold that had gripped me just moments before. The trembling in my hands subsided, and a sense of calm settled in.

But it didn’t stop there. The calm deepened into a soothing euphoria, like a gentle wave washing over me. My senses seemed to sharpen, and the world around me became more vibrant, as if I were seeing it through a new lens. The colors in the dressing room seemed to pop, and the soft hum of the fluorescent lights became a melodic symphony.

My heart rate steadied, and the knot of tension in my stomach loosened. It was as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, and I felt lighter, freer. The anxiety that had plagued me was like a distant memory, replaced by a sense of invincibility, like I was flying high above myself. All my problems were drowned out by the euphoria slicing across my skin.

“That’s it, princess,” Marco purred as my mother adjusted my outfit.

I stared at myself in the mirror, admiring the way the liquid silver of my form-fitting, sleeveless gown shimmered under the dressing room’s lights. My chest had intricate beadwork that caught the light, creating a dazzling effect that seemed to rival the stars themselves.

Or maybe that was just my high talking.

After she was satisfied with how I looked, they led me out of the dressing room. We got into a golf cart, and then I was driven to where I’d enter the arena.

“Try not to embarrass me,” Jolette snarked as I got out of the cart.

I normally would flinch at her words. But right then, there was nothing that could touch me, nothing that could make me feel anything but this.

I grinned at her and she scoffed. “Did we give her too much?” she muttered to Marco as he stared at me with greedy, glimmering eyes.

“She’s fine,” he answered, handing me my guitar. I hummed under my breath as my fingers brushed the strings.

It was time.

I walked down the tunnel and emerged into the brightly lit arena, and a deafening roar erupted from the crowd. The screams and applause battered against me as I moved, but my high acted as a barrier, protecting me from the anxiety that it would have given me otherwise.

I stepped onto the stage, the spotlight capturing me in its brilliant glow, and I leaned towards the microphone with a confident smile that had come from doing this what seemed like a million times over the years. ‘My name is Olivia,’ I announced, my voice carrying over the enthusiastic cheers of the audience. ‘And welcome to my show.’

With that introduction, I launched into my first song. The lyrics flowed effortlessly from my lips, and my voice soared through the arena, filling every corner. The crowd, caught in the magic of the moment, sang along, their voices blending with mine in a soundtrack that I both adored and hated at the same time.

Minutes stretched into hours, and I sang to them. And they sang to me.

And for a little while, I felt happy.

After the show, I walked back into the dressing room, and I stared at myself, not recognizing the girl glaring back at me.

My once dark auburn hair had been bleached to a harsh, unnatural shade of blonde, its tips brittle and fried from constant styling and coloring. It was a far cry from the healthy, vibrant locks that I’d had as a little girl. My eyes, normally a shade of hazel with gold rims…just like my grandmother’s, were blown out and ringed with kohl, their intensity dulled by layers of makeup. My cheeks, once filled with youthful vitality, now appeared gaunt and hollow. Like a skeleton.

My face was caked with layers of foundation, concealer, and powder, a mask that concealed every imperfection and blemish.

I looked sick.

No wonder the gossip rags were always talking about me.

I was sick.

I pulled on one of my curls, staring at the stranger in the mirror.

My high was almost gone, and with its demise, a creeping sense of unease was settling in. The rush of euphoria and confidence was giving way to an unsettling emptiness, a void that seemed to grow with each passing moment. The world around me had lost its luster, and all that was left was the stark reality of my existence.

A subtle restlessness gnawed at the edges of my consciousness, making it difficult to replace comfort in my own skin. My limbs felt heavy and sluggish, a stark contrast to the heightened energy and alertness I’d had just hours before.

I needed to go home.

Marco and my mother were long gone. They’d probably only stayed to make sure I made it out to the stage. Laura, one of my hired handlers, was waiting outside the dressing room to escort me to my ride. One of my houses was nearby, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t have to sleep in a hotel, or on a bus.

If only the house felt more like a home.

Laura didn’t say a word to me during the forty-five minute ride to the outskirts of the city. But I was used to that.

I never would have thought you could be lonely while constantly surrounded by people.

But my life was testament to that.

I shifted in my seat as the mansion came into view. It seemed to loom before me, its opulent facade illuminated by a cascade of vibrant lights. It was ridiculous looking, too big, too flashy..too excessive. My mother had forced me to buy it for us a few years ago, saying that I needed it to reflect my fame.

Really, though, it was an extravagant testament to her insatiable hunger for status and prestige. Everything about it was hers, from the ostentatious decorations, to the servile staff that catered to her every whim. Even the food in the kitchen was carefully selected and monitored by her.

I’d always felt like a stranger every minute that I spent between its walls.

I stepped through the imposing double doors, rubbing at my pounding head.

All I wanted to do was climb into bed after performing for hours. But of course that wasn’t possible.

Jolette had guests over. A mansion full of them.

All of them a carefully curated collection of individuals who had one thing in common: they had used me as a stepping stone to further their own ambitions. They were the hangers-on, the sycophants who clung to my mother as a means to climb the social ladder, and they had little interest in me beyond the status boost my name provided.

They moved through the opulent rooms with an air of entitlement, their designer outfits and expensive accessories on full display. They laughed too loudly, their voices filled with false enthusiasm, as if they were all trying to outdo each other in their quest to get noticed.

They were opportunists, all of them. All they cared about was getting the chance to say they were at a party at my mansion, because it would make them seem more important than they actually were.

Someone’s phone camera flashed as I walked through the room, and I grimaced as they took a picture of me. I’d changed into a pair of comfy sweats after the show, since my dress had been drenched in sweat.

They smiled at me and waved, all of them wanting my attention. They were vipers wearing suits of skin, and I hated them all.

Fuck. My head was throbbing.

I turned a corner…and there was Marco, leaned over a wannabe C list actress that had been trying to get his attention for weeks. I only knew that because she’d been my assistant at one time. Before she’d sold a lying sack of crap sob story about what a horrible brat I was to the media and got a spot on a soap opera because of it.

Of course she’d be allowed in my home.

Her dress was pulled down and his hand was squeezing her enormous fake boob. I grimaced and he saw me, immediately straightening up and shooing her away. She shot me a phony smile and waved like we were the best of friends before she trounced out of the room. Because why wouldn’t she?

“There you are, princess. I’ve been looking all over for you. I have some contracts for you to sign.”

“We need to wait until morning. I’ve got a headache,” I croaked, my head pounding and my eyes feeling like they were going to melt out of my head.

He took my arm and began to lead me down a hallway that led to the office he used in the mansion. “We need to go over them now. Especially with the recent headlines about you, we need to lock these agreements in place before the companies decide to revoke them based on bad publicity.”

I pulled on my arm, but he was holding it in a firm grip. It at least got him to slow down. “I don’t think I’m going to be signing up for the next tour. I need a break. I’m exhausted. And if I do play, I want it to be at smaller venues, like at music clubs or something. Places that feel more intimate.”

His face curled up in disgust. “Why the fuck would you want something like that? You’re at the top of your game. You need to keep pushing. They won’t always want you, so you have to take advantage while they do.”

That was a threat he and my mother always had. Everything was about the next big thing in music. It was me right now, but in a moment’s notice…it could be someone else. So I had to push, push, push until that other person came along.

My headache pulsed and a wave of nausea built up in my throat. When was the last time I’d eaten? Were pills and alcohol really all I’d had today?

I yanked on my arm this time, forcing him to let me go. “I’m not signing up for the tour. I’m tired. I—” my voice hitched. “I can’t continue like this.”

There was no sign of understanding in his gaze, no sign that he empathized…or that he cared. Instead his gaze grew hard and flinty, filling me with a sense of unease.

“Marco?” my mother said, coming around the corner and making the situation even worse. “What’s the problem with the brat now?”

“Princess here is saying she needs a break. She’s refusing to head out on the next tour..despite all the time that’s already been put into planning it. Despite all the people that are counting on it to put food on the table for their families.”

That was also something they used quite often, the threat of all the jobs that would be lost if “Olivia Darling” was no longer in business.

Except I was so tired at the moment, so out of sorts, so done…I couldn’t replace it in myself to really care.

“They’ll understand that I’m human, and sometimes, I need a break.”

My mother’s red polished fingernails dug into my skin. “Spoken like a girl who doesn’t understand how lucky she is,” she spat.

Vomit filled my mouth, and I choked it back. I pulled my arm from her grasp and started to back away from the two snarling assholes in front of me.

“What’s wrong, princess, need another hit?” Marco asked cajolingly, holding up the pills that he and my mother kept control over so they were my only access point.

Believe me, I’d tried to get ahold of some of those myself, and somehow they blocked me successfully at every attempt.

“I’m going to bed. And you can tell everyone, AS MY AGENT, that I’m taking a break. I’m not deciding on tours, or music…or my next record deal until I’m ready.”

My heart was fluttering like mad around me, sweat beading on my forehead with the effort to stand up to them like this.

But I couldn’t do it anymore. Something had to change.

Marco patted my mother’s back, and his face gentled. “You know, you’re completely right. You have been working hard…you need a break. You deserve a break.”

I wrinkled my nose in confusion at his about face, waiting for him to add one of those all important “buts” to his sentence.

“We shouldn’t be talking about what’s next. We should be celebrating what you’ve just accomplished! A sold out tour, including ten football stadiums…you’ve truly catapulted to new heights.”

My mother side-eyed him and then shrugged. “It’s true, Olivia. We owe you an apology. You have been working so hard.”

Had aliens invaded their bodies? Why was my mother’s tone so nice? I eyed them suspiciously.

“Thank you for understanding,” I said slowly, not trusting a word coming out of their mouths. “I’m just going to head to bed now.”

“Nonsense,” Marco said, beckoning me to his office. “We need to have a celebration drink, just a nightcap to celebrate a job well done.”

No way was I taking alcohol from him. He’d probably spike my drink. But the way they were so intently watching me…I would just go in and sit with them for five minutes. Then I would excuse myself. I’d stood up to them, I’d actually done it. I could do this.

Marco gestured to his office and I followed him into the room that he’d had completely redone to suit his taste—despite the fact that this wasn’t his house…and I wasn’t his only client. It wasn’t normal that he was here like this. But he and Jolette had insisted on it..so it had been done.

The room was out of place in the rest of the mansion, which was the epitome of traditional. His office had been done with clean lines and a monochromatic color scheme that screamed “modern.” The walls were covered with abstract artwork, their bold strokes and vibrant colors providing a striking contrast to the otherwise muted palette of the room. His desk was a polished slab of dark wood, adorned only with a few essential items—a sleek computer, a designer lamp, and a stack of contracts and scripts. Shelves lined one wall of the office, displaying an array of awards and accolades…all thanks to my work. Golden statuettes, glistening trophies, and framed certificates sparkled in the ambient light.

The fact that they were in here, and not in my room, told a clear picture of who he attributed my success to—himself.

“Brandy?” he asked, holding up a decanter from his bar cart on the far wall. My hands were trembling, and my mouth was watering…but I couldn’t be a fool.

Ignorance was only acceptable for so long.

“Just one of those water bottles,” I murmured, watching his eyes flash down to my shaking hands in my lap.

“Suit yourself. It’s not very celebratory,” my mother said, pouring herself some of the brandy with a smirk, like she was mocking my paranoia about the drink.

Marco handed me a sealed water bottle out of his mini fridge, and I opened the lid and gulped down the cool liquid. My throat was raw from singing for hours.

“To you, princess,” Marco hummed, lifting up his glass of brandy. I smiled weakly, trying to convince myself to stay in the room for one more minute. They were taking this a lot better than I thought they would. Maybe they finally understood how close to the edge I was.

Probably not. But…maybe.

“So tell me, Olivia. What are you going to do on your little…break?” my mother asked. Her voice was still mocking, but without the usual rancor she had when she spoke to me.

“Rest,” I croaked, my headache getting worse.

“How wonderful,” she giggled. Giggled. She usually saved that for people she was trying to impress.

Wait…what was happening to her?

I blinked and leaned forward, trying to focus on her head because…something was wrong with it. Her eyes were sliding down her face. “What’s—” I whispered, rubbing at my eyes. The room was blurring and warping. The artwork on the walls was melting and shifting in a nightmarish display. Panic clawed at my throat and I lurched out of my seat, pulling on my sweatshirt as I struggled to stand.

‘What’s happening to me?’ I stammered, my voice coming out garbled and distorted. My body felt heavy and uncooperative, like my limbs didn’t actually belong to me.

Laughter surrounded me, but it was demonic laughter, and it seemed to be coming from everywhere, like the room had suddenly filled with people while I’d been sitting in my chair.

“Help me,” I rasped, but I couldn’t make out faces anymore, everything seemed to be melting like hot wax, puddling onto the floor around me.

And still that laughter continued.

I needed to get out of here…call for help. I lurched towards what vaguely looked like an opening in the room, my movements clumsy and unsteady.

In the hallway, I clung to the cold, unforgiving walls for support, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My steps were faltering, and it felt like my legs were encased in concrete.

I tried to scream, but it was trapped inside me.

Step after step, I forced my way forward.

So many distorted faces. All wearing eerie masks of laughter. There were flashes of light, erratic and blinding…everywhere.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I slid into consciousness, trying to open my eyes. But it was as if they’d been superglued shut. It took what felt like forever to finally open them, and then even longer until the room came into focus.

White. It was on every surface. White walls and a white ceiling. White tiles on the floor.

White sheets.

Sheets? I stared at them, trying to figure out where I was. A hotel?

Some kind of weird, monochromatic one?

I tried to move my arm and something chafed my skin.

There was a scratchy band around my wrist.

It took me a second to realize that it was holding me to the bed.

Panicked, I pulled on my arm, trying to dislodge it. A moment later I realized that my ankles were also bound.

As I continued to struggle, a nurse entered the room, of course wearing a meticulous white uniform.

I’d obviously realized by now that something bad had happened. And the pitying way she was staring at me wasn’t making me feel any better.

“Can you please undo these?” I asked desperately, even though I had a feeling I knew what the answer was going to be.

“Don’t you worry, darlin,” she cooed. “We’re going to get you the help you need. That’s a promise. Your family is working very hard.”

My family?

“What…?” I whispered in confusion. The door to the room swung open and my mother and Marco rushed into the room.

“Oh you’re awake. Thank God!” my mother said, almost hysterically, as she squeezed Marco’s arm like she’d fall over without his support.

“We’re going to help you,” said Marco gravely.

I blinked up at them owlishly, trying to understand what they were saying. It felt like I was the punchline of some kind of joke…and I didn’t get it.

I bit down on my lip, trying to think of how I’d gotten here. I’d been performing right? And then I’d gone home. We’d been celebrating the last show and…

“You drugged me!” I screeched, pulling at the bindings desperately and thrashing around. I had to get out of here. I had to tell someone.

“Is this from the drugs?” my mother cried pathetically at the nurse, one hand still clutching Marco.

The woman nodded her head. “Coming down from that amount of ketamine can cause delusions. And combined with the other drugs she had in her system…she’s so lucky you were able to get her here in time.”

Ketamine?! “I’ve never taken ketamine in my life,” I snapped, hating how the nurse kept looking at me.

“Can we have a minute?” sniffed my mother.

The nurse hesitated and then nodded. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to check some more vitals.”

Marco and my mother waited until the nurse had closed the door behind her before their masks slipped. Gone was the concern, and in its place…pure evil.

“Did you really think we were going to let you destroy all of our hard work with one of your tantrums?”

“What have you done?” I whispered, desperately yanking again at the bindings. What was this fabric? It wouldn’t even budge.

“Well, we started with a 5150 psych hold,” Marco offered with a grin. “And tomorrow we’ll be appearing in front of a judge to start the conservatorship process.”

“I won’t let you get away with this,” I said…as fiercely as I could manage in a hospital gown, tied to a bed with all my basic rights stripped away.

“Okay,” my mother snickered sarcastically.

Marco opened up the briefcase he had with him and began to throw newspapers and magazines on the bed. All of them covered in pictures…of me.

From that night.

I was in my sweats, with a bottle in my hand, vomit stains on the front of my top. In one of the pictures my sleeve was rolled up and there was a needle in my hand that I was pressing into my arm. In another of the pictures, I was on my knees in front of some guy…On and on they went. Like I’d had a personal photographer witness to my downfall.

The headlines were just as bad.

‘Pop Princess Olivia’s Shocking Downfall: A Tragic Tale of Drug Scandal and Despair!’

‘Olivia’s Dark Descent: From Chart-Topping Sensation to the Depths of Addiction.’

‘The Rise and Fall of America’s Darling: Inside Her Drug-Fueled Spiral.’

‘Olivia’s Drowning in Fame: The Scandal That Rocked the Music World!’

‘From Sweet Melodies to Bitter Pills: Olivia’s Troubling Journey.’

‘Behind the Curtains: Olivia’s Hidden Battle with Addiction.’

‘The Tragic Ballad of Olivia Darling: How Fame Led to Her Downfall.’

‘From Pop Stardom to Rock Bottom: The Shocking Truth About Olivia Darling’s Struggle.’

‘Olivia’s Last Note: The Pop Princess’s Drug Scandal That Shook Hollywood!’

I stared at them all, a strange numbness sliding through me, greasy and thick.

“This isn’t true,” I whimpered. “Why would you do this?”

“We’ll have all the control. We’ll have all the money. You won’t be able to do anything without our permission.” My mother’s voice was so gleeful, it was like a cartoon villain.

And as I sat there staring at them…all I could think was…

My life was over.