Chapter Text
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The dry-erase marker fumes in the third-floor conference room of the Ottawa Centaurs administrative suite were strong enough to strip paint off a locker room wall.
It was nearly one o’clock in the morning. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlooked the parking lot of the Canadian Tire Center, the city of Ottawa was quiet. Inside Room 304, however, the energy was vibrating somewhere between a high-stakes trade deadline meeting and hard conversations about weaponizing cap space.
Harris Drover, Director of Social Media and Public Relations for the Ottawa Centaurs, was currently pacing the length of the room, his rainbow Converse practically wearing a path into the carpet. His hoodie drawstrings were in his mouth as he tried to keep his shit together. His hair was slightly tousled from running his fingers through it every four minutes. In his right hand, he held a red dry-erase marker like a conductor’s baton; in his left hand, a unicorn shaped cake pop—his fourth of the night.
Across the sprawling wooden meeting table sat Yuna Hollander.
Where Harris was a whirlwind of sensory overload, Yuna was calm, cool and collected. The executive director and operational mastermind behind both the Game Changers youth initiative camps and the Irina Foundation sat with perfect posture in a light blue linen blouse, her hair in a ponytail. Her laptop screen cast a cool blue glow that accentuated her sharp, elegant features. Beside her keyboard sat three immaculately organized stacks of color-coded folders, a half-empty bottle of Montellier sparkling water, and a legal pad covered in various notes that she had been taking with her meticulous handwriting.
Between them stretched the whiteboard: a six-foot expanse of chaos that was covered in arrows, exclamation points, bracketed names, and mind-maps that resembled the scribblings of a mad scientist trying to prove the existence of parallel universes.
"Harris," Yuna said softly, her voice crisp, measured, and meticulous in the quiet room. She didn't look up from her laptop. Her fingers flew across the keyboard with the rhythm of a machine gun. "If you write the word ‘electric’ on that board one more time, I am going to confiscate your markers and lock you in the media press box until morning."
"Yuna, I think this is the best idea I’ve had in a long, long time," Harris whirled around, tapping the marker tip against the whiteboard, right next to a giant star drawn around the all-caps words THE GREAT CENTAURS GAME-ATHON. "This isn’t a fundraiser, or a raffle, or a charity drive. I want to take the idea of philanthropy, turn it upside down, and create a media sensation where our team and favorite supporters can get creative with how we fundraise and bring the importance of mental health support and inclusion in hockey to a large audience. And who doesn't love playing games? Using the platform of a gameshow—of some favorite game shows—is the ultimate way to marry our causes with high entertainment value."
"It is a fascinating idea," Yuna replied smoothly, finally pausing her typing to look up at him through her reading glasses, "but it’s also a logistical nightmare involving high-profile professional athletes, various television networks, several dozen corporate insurance adjusters, and countless non-disclosure agreements. And that’s assuming my son doesn't suffer a full-blown existential crisis on live television if we have him participate."
Harris nodded. "Shane can definitely be nervous, most definitely. But Shane is also a Stanley Cup champion. He has faced down more than his share of seven-game series against the most terrifying forwards in the league. He would do anything for Game Changers and the Irina Foundation. I have faith in him. I think, if we gave him some guidance and support, he could handle a studio audience."
"Shane almost fainted filming his Calvin Klein commercial because Ilya was there and wouldn’t stop going on about his incredible package that was, and I quote, ‘only for your hot Russian boyfriend to enjoy.’ The director had to pause to give my son time to return to his natural coloring because Ilya’s comments made him turn fire hydrant red."
"That was years ago, when Shane and Ilya were still keeping their relationship under wraps," Harris countered, taking a quick step toward the table and leaning both hands on the edge. "He’s gotten so much better at living loudly. He’s transformed. He and Ilya are out and married and since they’ve gotten back from Ibiza and Maldives, Shane has zero fucks to give about what people think”
Yuna sighed. "Perhaps you’re right, Harris. But do you remember what happened last time Shane and Ilya were on a game show? We don’t need to bring up the tape, do we?"
"Oh, I am definitely bringing up the tape!" Harris dropped into the chair opposite her, leaning across the table like a co-conspirator selling state secrets. "You know as well as I do what happened in that unaired Family Feud episode. The secret, unaired pilot episode. The vault tape. Shane is definitely more mellow now than he was then."
Yuna pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a small, long-suffering exhale. But despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched. "The Family Feud disaster. That day was…interesting."
"I really wish I would have been there, Yuna! It was comedy gold! I’ve gotta admit, I’m a little jealous. You had a front row seat, standing next to Shane," Harris threw his head back, letting out a delighted laugh was classic Harris. "Shane stood at that podium, staring at Ilya like he wanted to murder him. I thought that Shane was going to pass out more than once. His knuckles were white. His jaw was locked. And Ilya was unhinged. Completely. It was amazing!”
Yuna covered her face with one hand, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter, remembering her son’s deer-in-the-headlights display during Round 3. "Shane said the sun was in his eyes for an answer about missing a shot on net. And Ilya? The slutty white shorts answer? Everyone has seen those damn shorts, even David and I have seen him in those and trust me, we wish we could unsee that. No parent needs to see their own child wearing slutty white shorts. Shane’s response when I asked him about them one time was ‘They’re well-loved and comfy, Mom.’ I wanted to die!"
"And, I am so sorry to bring this up, but when Hayden Pike said…" Harris laughed, tears streaming down his face as he gasped for air. "When Hayden said the thing about hearing your best friend getting a blowjob when they thought you were on mute and they weren’t and heard the whole thing? And then Ilya—oh god, Ilya—decided to 'help' by chirping and gloating and making Hayden practically cry? And then Hayden realized what he said and started apologizing? The producers ruled the show too risky to air!"
"It was non-broadcastable for a multitude of reasons, Harris," Yuna said, recovering her composure and straightening her sleeves, though her eyes were still dancing with amusement.
"Exactly!" Harris chuckled, his face flushed with amusement. "People think pro hockey players are these stoic, ice-cold gladiators who only talk in locker-room clichés and drink protein shakes. But the fans know there’s unfiltered chaos bubbling just below the surface. When you put elite, hyper-competitive millionaire athletes into situations where their athletic skill means absolutely nothing, and their complete lack of game show trivia knowledge is exposed to millions of viewers? The internet breaks. Social media implodes. The engagement metrics orbit the moon. That’s why we need a Game-A-Thon. Or change the name. I don’t care. We need it, though!"
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He stood back up, staring at the whiteboard with a look of accomplishment and excitement. Then, he turned back towards Yuna with a different look: a look of a man who wanted something desperately and who wasn’t afraid to pull out puppy dog eyes to aid in his pitch.
"Think about it, Yuna. We don't just do one game show. We do a whole spin-off event of shows. A full, multi-network charity tournament series. The Irina Foundation & Game Changers Celebrity Showdown. We partner with major networks. We work with existing game shows and competition series. We get corporate sponsors to front every single dime of the prize pots. The networks get sky-high summer ratings and viral clips that will dominate TikTok for months. The sponsors get tax write-offs and massive brand goodwill. And one hundred percent goes to our causes. Not ninety percent, not whatever is left after administrative fees, but one hundred percent of the prize money goes straight into the Foundation accounts."
He paused, breathing slightly heavily, his arms outstretched as if presenting Yuna with a newborn grandchild.
For a few agonizing moments, the conference room fell silent.
Yuna didn't say anything immediately. She leaned back in her chair, slowly tapping her pen against the table. Her eyes drifted from Harris’s flushed, exuberant face to the wild scribbles on the whiteboard, taking in the chaotic web of arrows and thought bubbles he had scrawled in moments of manic genius.
"One hundred percent of all winnings," Yuna repeated quietly, her analytical mind already stripping away the flair and examining the core structure. "No overhead deducted. The sponsors write the checks directly to the Irina Foundation endowment and the Game Changers summer camp scholarship fund."
"Direct bank transfers," Harris agreed instantly, leaning forward. "We cover production logistics out of our existing media allocation budget, and I can negotiate host fees down to zero by leveraging guest appearances and cross-promotional PR. We frame it as the ultimate feel-good sports entertainment event of the off-season."
Yuna put down her pen. Clack.
"Alright, Harris," she said, her voice dropping into the authoritative tone that had made her one of the most respected foundation directors and momagers in North America. "Hypothetically. Let's look at the realities of this idea."
Harris grinned, putting the rest of his cake pop in his mouth and pulling a fresh blue marker from his hoodie front pocket. "Go ahead, Yuna. I’m ready."
"First," Yuna said, opening a fresh spreadsheet tab on her laptop and leaning into the screen. "Scheduling. The NHL off-season is brief, and our players scatter across three continents the moment the exit interviews end. Shane and Ilya have all of the Game Changers camps, but we can work around that and try to make sure that at least one of them is there if the other isn’t. And we try to film on a tight weekend schedule when possible, that way if they both need to be in an episode together, we can swing that.”
Yuna continued. “Bood works our camp in Ontario, but that’s only a week. Troy is normally at each camp, but maybe we can work it out that he can miss one of them? Wyatt and Luca have Comic Con in San Diego, but that’s for less than a week. Hayden has the kids, but also Jackie is the most capable mom I know. And I wouldn’t mind helping her out; I feel like they are my adopted grandchildren already. We have everyone else on the team to try and find out summer plan strategies. How do you propose we get an assortment of elite athletes into studio locations without disrupting their summer conditioning or personal lives?"
"Easy," Harris said, drawing a massive circle on the board and writing OTTAWA WAREHOUSE DISTRICT inside it. "We don't send them to Los Angeles or New York for every show. As much as we can, we bring the shows to us. Networks do localized production setups all the time for international franchises. Ottawa is our nation’s capital; we have studio spaces, production hubs, and soundstages right here. For the shows that require specific celebrity panels, like The Masked Singer, we coordinate single-day shoot schedules during their media tour stops. One dense, highly efficient filming week in late July or early August. They give us forty-eight hours of intense focus for one show, and then they go back to their summer schedules."
Yuna’s fingers danced across her keyboard, calculating travel stipends, production insurance, and facility rentals against Harris’s proposed corporate sponsorship guarantees.
"This could work," Yuna conceded after a brief pause, a nod of approval escaping her. "It’s logistically tight, but doable if we lock down the Ottawa soundstage lease by Friday. Second problem: personal safety and liability. If any player gets carried away playing, say…Supermarket Sweep… and tears an ACL while trying to jump over a giant inflatable hot dog or breaks a leg after slipping on a dropped egg while trying to make a cake on Nailed It!, I will personally take a sledgehammer to your MacBook."
"I promise: no extreme physical danger," Harris reassured her. "I am not putting our top line on something like American Ninja Warrior, Yuna. I love my job, and I love this team too much to jeopardize anyone’s safety. We select shows that focus on mental comedy, mild physical chaos, culinary disasters, or trivia pressure. High embarrassment, practically zero medical risk. The worst injury anyone suffers will be a bruised ego or burnt burgers."
Yuna tapped the edge of her laptop screen. "Which brings me to my third and most critical concern: the human factor. You are asking professional athletes—men whose entire lives are built on control, peak physical execution, and hating the concept of losing—to willingly step into situations where they are almost guaranteed to fail publicly and perhaps humiliate themselves. Who is actually going to agree to this willingly?"
Harris’ smile widened. He uncapped his red marker again and walked over to the blank section of the board.
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"That, my dear Yuna, is where my pitch becomes a masterpiece," Harris said dramatically. "Because I don't just ask them to do a game show. I match players according to their talents and interests and find the perfect game show format that match their personality perfectly."
He drew a thick horizontal line across the top of the board and wrote: PLAYER PROPOSALS
"Let’s start with an obvious match," Harris declared, writing the name BOOD in giant block letters. “The man is built like a brick wall, hits like a runaway freight train, and spends his down time obsessing over low-and-slow smoking techniques. He loves creating his own dry rubs, and mastering how to grill exotic game. He treats his backyard smoker like an altar and his grill like the Holy Grail."
Yuna tilted her head, watching him. "You want Bood on a cooking show."
"Not just any cooking show," Harris purred. "Beat Bobby Flay. Picture it, Yuna: Round one, Bood goes head-to-head in a preliminary cook-off against someone he knows. Someone who also knows their way around a grill, but who would never question that Bood is the ultimate culinary grillmaster that can actually beat Bobby Flay."
"Ilya," Yuna stated instantly, not even having to think about it. "Ilya can cook. He’s good. His seared steak, cedar plank salmon, and traditional Medovik are to die for. He can’t beat Bood, but I think he’d be ok with losing. Ilya’s ego will never allow him to turn down a television appearance where he gets to wear a chef’s coat and look devastatingly handsome."
"Exactly!" Harris shouted, clapping his hands together. "Ilya goes into Round 1 knowing he’s probably going to lose to Bood, but he does it anyway because he wants the camera time and he wants to see Bood crush a celebrity chef on national TV. Bood wins the preliminary round, gets to the main event, and what signature dish does he choose to challenge Bobby Flay?"
"Jerk chicken," Yuna murmured, a genuinely impressed smile breaking across her face. "Bood’s secret-recipe jerk chicken. It’s what he’s known for. He would have the best chance to win if he chose that for the final battle."
"He will fight Bobby Flay like it’s Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals," Harris declared. "The ratings for the Food Network will hit the stratosphere. The food community will go wild. And the Irina Foundation gets a massive lump-sum check signed by corporate sponsors who want their logos on Boog’s apron. I also can ask around and try to get some celebrity foodie judges that also know sports."
Yuna entered the figures into her master budget spreadsheet. The potential payout column lit up green. "That’s... actually brilliant. It hits the exact demographic of sports fans and casual foodies. What else?"
Harris moved down the board, his marker flying. "The Masked Singer. The Special Hockey Edition."
Yuna blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The Masked Singer, Yuna!" Harris cheered. "We have the standard panel of Jenny McCarthy, Reba McEntyre, Robin Thicke, and Ken Jeong. But sitting right next to them as special guest celebrity panelists? Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander."
Yuna leaned back so hard her chair squeaked. "You want Shane and Ilya on The Masked Singer panel? Trying to guess singers?"
"Think about it," Harris insisted. "Ilya will be making wild, completely unhinged guesses based on body language and swagger. And his fiery personality next to Ken Jeong? Epic! Shane will be taking meticulous notes on a notepad, trying to analyze vocal pitches and height metrics like he’s breaking down game tape of an opposing power play! Guess who we invite to be the masked contestants under those giant costumes…"
Harris tapped the marker against the board three times.
"Contestant Number One: Ryan Price. Ryan pretends he’s just a gritty hockey player, but he has an advantage in the fact that he has spent the past two years touring with Fabian. He knows music. He’s shy when people recognize him, but if we get him into a giant costume he can hide his face and let loose. Plus, he is a huge camp supporter. He would do anything for the kids he works with."
Yuna’s eyes widened. "Ryan can actually sing?"
"He’s shockingly good!" Harris added excitedly. "Fabian’s vocal coach has worked with him, or so Fabian says. Something about Ryan wanting to understand every aspect of Fabian and his career. He’s a super supportive partner and just as supportive of Game Changers.”
Yuna smiled and nodded. “I love the idea of asking Ryan. Hell, I love the idea of seeing if Fabian would host if Ryan agrees, but we can play with that pitch later. Who else do you have in mind?”
“Contestant Number Two: Evan Dykstra,” Harris shared. “He loves music and this would be right up his wheelhouse. I think he’d definitely participate."
Yuna laughed. "Shane always complains that Evan takes over the music in the locker room. Good choice, Harris."
"Contestant Number Three is one that I want you to hear me out for. He’s not a Centaurs player, but he is someone who loves our team like he is one of us," Harris explained. "I say we recruit Cliff Marlow. It would throw Shane and Ilya off the scent. He seemed to love when he was on the Family Feud episode on Ilya's team and he asked me to play a few songs at Shane and Ilya's wedding 'to get everyone in the mood for love.'”
“Evan and Cliff. I can see both of them being on board. We still need one more contestant though,” Yuna said.
“Exactly. That leaves who I think we should ask to be Contestant Number Four... the ultimate unmasking that will cause the hockey world to lose their minds..."
Harris leaned across the table, whispering the name like a sacred prophecy.
"Coach Wiebe."
Yuna stared at him. The silence in the conference room stretched for five full seconds.
Then, Yuna slowly lowered her forehead onto her hands, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably as a deep, breathless laughter took over.
"Coach Wiebe," she wheezed into her folded arms. "You want our head coach to dress up in a crazy costume, sing on national television, and get unmasked in front of all of North America?"
"I do! Can you imagine Ilya’s face?" Harris giggled with delight, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Can you imagine Shane’s jaw hitting the floor when the big foam head comes off and it’s his coach holding a microphone? It will be the single most shared video clip in the history of Centaurs media!"
Yuna wiped a tiny tear of laughter from the corner of her eye, sitting back up and adjusting her reading glasses. She took a deep breath, trying desperately to regain her composure, though her cheeks were flushed.
"That... is brilliant. Shane would never guess that it was Brandon. Not in a million years," she admitted, typing rapidly into her master document. "The social media reach alone would generate millions in earned media value for the Game Changers summer camp program. Network executives would pay a fortune for that reveal."
"I know!" Harris crowed. "I am a PR visionary! A marketing prophet!"
"That’s if they all agree. We need to be careful about pushing our luck too hard with them," Yuna warned, though the warmth in her voice was undeniable. "Speaking of pushing luck... what else is on that board?"
Harris’s grin was a mile wide on his face. He wrote five words in red: Press Your Luck. Ilya Rozanov.
"Oh, no," Yuna said immediately, reading his mind. "No. Absolutely not."
"Oh, yes!" Harris laughed. "Ilya Rozanov. Playing Press Your Luck. Facing the Big Board. Can you imagine him? He’ll be yelling at the Whammies like he’s being dragged to the box for a five minute major."
"Harris, Ilya has a competitive fury that borders on a medical condition," Yuna said, leaning forward intently. "If an animated, cartoon Whammy appears on a digital screen and steals his imaginary prize money, he will physically attack the monitor. He will throw a chair through the visual effects board!"
"That is why it’s television perfection, Yuna!" Harris argued passionately. "The entertainment value of watching a Cup winning hockey god get progressively, wildly furious at a red cartoon goblin taking away his points. He will be screaming at the board in two languages! The audience will be weeping with laughter and it will be a ratings hit!"
"And who," Yuna asked, rubbing her temples, "are you putting at the other two podiums to survive that nuclear blast zone?"
"We leave those slots open for now," Harris said smoothly, waving his hand. "Maybe a couple of rival players from other teams who aren't afraid of him? Maybe we see who wants to participate that we haven’t thought of? But Ilya is the anchor contestant of that idea for sure."
He quickly moved to the next section of the whiteboard before she could veto it.
"I’m excited for this next one. I want us to bring Nailed It! to the Ottawa warehouse stage. The amateur baking disaster show. We put Troy on it for sure."
Yuna paused, looking up. "Troy? Troy is an extraordinary baker. He always says that when he retires from the ice, he wants to manage his own pastry business."
"That’s the beauty of it!" Harris beamed, his voice softening with fond pride as he spoke about his husband. "The whole premise of Nailed It! is that terrible bakers try to recreate complex, professional cake sculptures and fail miserably. Troy goes on the show, acts all modest and quiet, and then dominates the show by producing a flawless, Michelin-star quality fondant replica of the Stanley Cup in forty-five minutes. The host, Nicole Byer, will lose her mind! She’ll be shouting at him, 'Sir, you are far too good at this, get out of my kitchen!'"
Yuna let out a soft laugh. "And his fellow contestants?"
"Luca," Harris supplied instantly. "Luca will go on with him. Luca will do an okay job. His cake will be passable. He’ll try really hard, sprinkle way too much edible glitter on everything, and make a cake that looks like a modern art sculpture. He has a huge heart and he would agree, I’m sure."
Yuna nodded. “And the third?”
Harris took a deep breath. “I would really like to be the third baker. I love baking, and I think it would be fun to compete against Troy and also be involved on that side of things, actually doing something tangible to give back?”
Yuna stared at the whiteboard. The columns were filling up. The financial projections in her spreadsheet were beginning to look not just promising, but truly viable.
She looked at the numbers. She looked at the names. She looked at Harris, who was standing there like an eager puppy waiting for a tennis ball to be thrown, practically vibrating with creative energy.
Slowly, Yuna tapped the table. She picked up her red editing pen and hovered it over her notepad.
"Harris," she said quietly.
"Yes, Yuna?"
“I think you are the perfect third Nailed It! contestant.”
Harris had the biggest grin on his face that Yuna had ever seen. She was so happy that he advocated for what he wanted, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Harris would give it his all.
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"So we have some solid ideas, Harris. Where is the anchor event?" Yuna asked.
Harris blinked. "The anchor event?"
"Every major television special needs a grand finale," Yuna said, her eyes sharpening as her operational brain fully took over the steering wheel. "A thrilling, high-octane closing event to officially bring things to a close. Something physical. Something fast-paced, highly visual, and rooted in team dynamics. Something we can film right here in Ottawa on that warehouse soundstage we’re going to secure."
Harris stared at her, his jaw slowly dropping as he realized what she was doing. She wasn't just vetting his pitch anymore. She was optimizing it. She had officially crossed the line from skeptic to co-conspirator.
"What... what are you thinking?" Harris whispered, leaning across the table.
Yuna stood up from her chair. She walked around the long table, took the blue marker straight out of Harris’s hand, and walked up to the whiteboard.
In an elegant script, she wrote:
Supermarket Sweep: Celebrity Hockey Edition
Harris gasped. For a moment his breath took in a sharp, dramatic intake of air that sounded like a tire deflating. "Yuna. Supermarket Sweep?"
"You mentioned the show earlier in your pitch, and I think it’s perfect. Think about it," she said, turning around with a brilliant smile that proved why she ran every major operation in their circle. "That show would be the ultimate arena for professional athletes without being a purely athletic show. To win the game, a team would need physical speed, tactical planning, spatial awareness, and know about grocery products and pricing. It has the potential to give the audience a comedic performance of grocery-based insanity.”
Yuna walked closer to Harris and continued. “We take six of our players. We split them into three teams of two. We put them in oversized, ridiculous custom sweatshirts. We let them pick team names. We turn them loose in a grocery store environment and we watch multi-millionaire athletes sprint down aisles, body-checking displays of paper towels and screaming over giant inflatable hams."
Harris looked like he was about to burst into tears of joy. "Yuna... you are a genius. You are a PR mastermind."
"I am a foundation director who knows how to maximize corporate sponsor buy-in," Yuna corrected smoothly, though her eyes were shining with excitement. "Think about the team pairings, Harris. It writes itself."
She turned back to the board, tapping the marker against the porcelain.
"Team One: Shane and Ilya."
"Obviously," Harris blurted out instantly, his eyes wide. "Shane will treat it like a Game 7 tactical operation! He’ll have a laminated playbook in his sweatshirt pocket! And Ilya will just be running at top speed, using the shopping cart like a battering ram, throwing entire racks of lamb and wagyu beef portions into the basket because 'meat is expensive, moy malysh, we need the points!'"
"Exactly," Yuna agreed, writing the names down. "Shane will be trying to calculate the price-per-ounce of baby formula while Ilya tries to steal a giant wheel of parmesan cheese off a top shelf. It will test their collaboration, their conditioning, and their sanity."
"Yuna, your own son! That is cutthroat,” Harris remarked.
“Shane can handle it,” she said with confidence.
“And Team Two?" Harris asked breathlessly.
"Troy and Bood," Yuna wrote. "The culinary experts. They actually know what grocery items cost. They know food. But their fatal flaw will be their own perfectionism. Troy will stop in the baking aisle to critique the quality of the store-bought cake mix, and Bood will get completely sidetracked evaluating the marbling on a rack of ribeyes, completely forgetting that the clock is ticking down."
"Oh, that’s so good! That is going to be painfully funny!" Harris cheered. "And Team Three?"
Yuna smiled, a warm, affectionate expression softening her features as she wrote the final two names: Luca and Wyatt.
"The two team nerds, which I say in the most loving way because I am also a nerd," Harris squealed, clapping his hands. "They won't pay attention to the grocery prices, they will shop based on aesthetics. They love comic books, superhero lore, and tactical missions so they will pick the flashiest packaging. They will treat the game like an Avengers rescue operation. They’ll be giving each other code names over imaginary walkie-talkies behind towers of soup cans. Plus, I know they would be one hundred percent in."
"Knowing them and how they really get into themes, they will probably want to wear custom capes over their sweatshirts," Yuna added, capping the marker with a sharp snap. "I will personally ensure the wardrobe department prints comic-book logos with a team symbol on their shirts if that’s what it will take to have them participate."
She walked back to her seat, leaning her hands on the back of her chair, looking at the board in front of them.
Instead of a chaotic mess of manic ideas, Yuna saw inspiration. She and Harris had come up with a multi-network charitable plan. It wasn’t fully formed yet, but it was promising nonetheless.
"Ok. Enough," Yuna said, her voice dropping into pure executive command mode. "We have a solid direction, now we just need to mold our ideas into something concrete. Tomorrow morning, meet me here at eight. I want us to draft the master proposal documents for the Irina Foundation board and the Centaurs executive committee. Then we will split off. By noon I think I can lock in the corporate sponsor underwriting guarantees. I already have three major banks and a national supermarket chain who I think will gladly front the prize pots for the tax credits and prime-time visibility."
"While you are working on sponsorships I’m going to take a page out of Shane’s book and be Mr. Real Estate for the day," Harris declared, puffing out his chest, "I want to secure the Ottawa warehouse studio lease that we need. If we get that, we can start drawing up plans to build a Supermarket Sweep grocery set right here in town. And when we get done filming, maybe we can turn it into a food pantry and keep it stocked for anyone in Ottawa that has food insecurity concerns."
"Perfect," Yuna nodded. "If we can get all of this accomplished in the next few days, we’ll be ready for phase two. By Friday, we call a meeting with the team, and we get Ryan Price and Cliff Marlow in on a Zoom call to join us. We pitch the overall idea and tell them that we will email them a proposal of what show we want them to join. That way, The Masked Singer contestants will stay secret."
Harris paused, a devilish grin spreading across his face as he looked at the list of names on the board.
Shane. Ilya. Bood. Troy. Luca. Wyatt. Evan. Coach Wiebe. Ryan. Cliff. Harris.
"We can’t give them any hints about the purpose of the meeting. I want them to have no idea what’s about to hit them," Harris whispered softly, his voice full of joy. "I want them to think they’re coming in for a routine community outreach briefing. They’ll have absolutely no idea what we are about to rope them into."
"They will be blindsided," Yuna pointed out, though her smile was wide and victorious. "Shane will wonder if we can hire a health-conscious caterer. Ilya will ask if he gets his own hair and makeup team. Bood will ask if he gets to keep the meat he shops for."
"And in the end," Harris said, stepping up beside her and looking out at the Ottawa skyline, "they will all agree to participate. Because it’s for the kids. Because it’s for the Foundation. And because deep down, every single one of them wants to prove they can win."
Yuna looked at the board one last time, then reached down and closed her laptop screen.
"Lock up when you leave, Harris," Yuna said, picking up her coat and walking toward the door. "Get some sleep. We’re about to turn the Ottawa Centaurs into television stars."
Harris took one last look at the whiteboard. He let out a long, happy sigh, clicked off the conference room lights, and stepped out into the hallway, already drafting future press releases in his head.
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Just as Harris turned the key to lock the door, his phone buzzed sharply against his hip.
That might be Troy, he thought. I’d better check to make sure things are ok.
He pulled his phone out, squinted at the glowing screen, and instantly froze. His eyes widened.
"Yuna," Harris choked out, walking towards Yuna so fast he almost tripped over his Converse laces. "Wait. Hold on. Stop walking. Turn around."
Yuna stopped as the elevator she had been waiting for dinged and the doors opened. She looked back over her shoulder with an expression of concern. "Harris, it is 1:45 in the morning. Is this an emergency?”
"Yes? No? Just… look!" Harris practically sprinted the remaining few feet, his phone in hand and ready to show Yuna. "This email just came through. Official confirmation from the NBC network executives!"
Yuna took a step back, adjusting her reading glasses so she could actually read the screen. Her eyes scanned the text, her eyebrows slowly rising. "A network inquiry... for Password?"
"Not just an inquiry: a greenlight for a special event episode!" Harris exclaimed, his voice vibrating with triumph. "I sent them a pitch a few weeks ago and I guess they liked it! And guess what? No Keke Palmer, no Jimmy Fallon for this one. NBC wants a specialized hockey overhaul episode. A philanthropic game to support the Great Canadian Giving Challenge that we have every June. We don’t even need to finish building the Ottawa warehouse for this; we just need to supply the participants!"
Yuna adjusted her glasses, studying the email thread with mounting interest. "A traditional four-player format. Who did you pitch to host?"
"Scott," Harris grinned. "Scott Hunter."
Yuna let out a soft, approving breath. "Scott is perfect. He has that natural, steady authority, a deep broadcast-worthy voice, and total respect across the entire league. The audience adores him, and he knows how to keep a room moving."
"And wait until you hear the teams I suggested," Harris said, leaning in with a goofy grin. "I pitched NBC the pairings two weeks ago on a Zoom call, and they were definitely interested. That’s what moved this pitch to the final three, and I think it’s why they ultimately chose us. Well, that and our charities.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Harris,” Yuna said with a yawn. “We’re pushing two o’clock now.”
Harris took a deep breath. “For the first team, I suggested…Shane and Hayden Pike."
"Oh, I love this! Best friends teaming up," Yuna nodded, a subtle smirk playing on her lips. "They’ve known each other forever. They can practically hold entire conversations using only eyebrow twitches and subtle head tilts."
"Which makes them a terrifying force of nature," Harris agreed.
“And the second team?” Yuna asked.
"It might sound crazy but... the ultimate counter-weight team to take on Shane and Hayden is... Ilya and Jackie Pike."
Yuna blinked, pausing for a hot minute as her brain processed the oddity of that combination. "Ilya and Jackie? Really?"
"The spouses of the best friends," Harris chuckled gleefully. "Yuna, those two have known each other forever. Ilya loves Jackie. He’s declared her the ‘best Pike’ for as long as I have known him. They are mental twins, really. Their brains are surrounded by chaos on a regular basis and they are both great under pressure.”
“Ilya does talk about how much he loves Jackie,” Yuna recalled. “He chirps Hayden constantly, but always winks at Jackie when he does. And, to her credit, she laughs every time.”
“Right?” Harris exclaimed. “Think about it: Ilya and Jackie thrive on taking care of others. And they are outnumbered when they do this. Ilya has the entire roster of the Centaurs, and Jackie has five kids. Shane and Hayden are going to try to use precise, dictionary-accurate linguistic associations, while Ilya and Jackie are going to blurt out answers and take mental leaps that shouldn't work, but somehow will."
Yuna looked back down at the email, the projected revenue numbers, and the preliminary shooting schedule already locked in for the end of the month in New York.
"So Supermarket Sweep is our grand finale," Yuna said softly, a brilliant smile taking over her tired face, "but Password is the spark that lights the fuse to launch our plan."
"The inaugural match, literally," Harris declared. "We start with Password. The entire hockey world is about to watch four of the biggest names in the sport fight over word association. Hollander. Hunter. Pike. Rozanov. And the bonus of having Jackie there against her husband is ratings gold for the network, which translates to more money for the Foundation."
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Three weeks later:
Inside a sleek, brightly lit NBC studio set in New York, the ambient chatter of the live studio audience quieted to a hushed, expectant murmur as the floor manager counted down with three fingers, two, then pointed directly to the center podium.
The studio lights shifted into a gold and deep blue hue. Standing behind the podium, Scott Hunter smiled broadly into the main camera lens, and let his natural charisma command the room.
"Welcome, television lovers, wordsmiths, and hockey fans, to a very special night of Password," Scott began, his voice carrying an engaging, natural warmth that always put everyone at ease. "Tonight, our players are competing for an incredible cause. While many of you know these guys for their work with their LGBTQ+ youth hockey camps, tonight's game is dedicated entirely to raising funds and awareness for the Irina Foundation."
The audience erupted into enthusiastic applause. Behind their respective podiums, Shane and Hayden offered polite, focused nods, already looking like they were preparing for an opening face-off, while Ilya flashed a dazzling, million-dollar smile at the cameras, leaning over to whisper something to a grinning Jackie that made her burst into a sudden, wild laugh.
Standing in the darkened stage wing beside the control booth, Harris wrapped his arm around Troy's waist and leaned his head on his husband's shoulder, watching Yuna track the broadcast monitors backstage with a look of satisfaction.
The game was officially on.
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Stay tuned for a charitable episode of Password, featuring Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, and Ilya Rozanov.
Special guest appearance by The Pike Kids.