Messier - Trevor Zegras

Chapter One: Damage Control

You don't even make it past security before someone calls him a "walking PR nightmare."

"Try not to let him flirt with you," the intern at the desk says with a smirk as she hands you your visitor badge. "You wouldn't be the first."

You offer a tight smile, fingers curling around the laminate pass. Anaheim Ducks - PR Department. You've only been on the job thirty-two minutes and you already want to delete TikTok from your phone forever.

It's been a full week since the breakup heard round the hockey world.
Trevor Zegras and Brielle Arden: over.
She's a model-slash-influencer with a million followers, he's a 23-year-old Disney prince with a slapshot and a smug grin. Together, they were viral.
Now? They're a disaster.
A beautifully lit, expertly filtered, endlessly speculated-about disaster.

You've seen the clips.

Trevor walking out of Catch LA, paparazzi flashbulbs painting his jaw in sharp light, a voice off camera shouting, "Was she cheating on you, Z?"
Another of him at practice, off his game, checking the wrong guy, jaw clenched so hard his whole face trembles.
And of course:
The TikToks.
The ones with soundtracks of Olivia Rodrigo, dramatic slow-mo edits, and comments like:
"He hasn't been the same since she left."
"Breakup slump is real."
"I'd fix him."

You're not here to fix him.

You're here to manage him-to clean up the press, control the narrative, and make sure Anaheim's golden boy looks like a franchise player again before playoffs start.

You repeat that to yourself like a prayer as you push through the doors of the practice facility.

"PR sent me a babysitter?"

You don't have to look up to know it's him.

That voice-the smooth California drawl, low and amused-is already too familiar. You've heard it in press clips and chirp compilations. Heard it say things like "I like a girl who can shoot her shot," and "Yeah, that one was for her."

You lift your gaze slowly.

Trevor Zegras is all legs and messy curls, leaning against the wall outside the locker room with a grin that could break laws in most states.

He's wearing a gray hoodie, backwards hat, and sweatpants that are probably more expensive than your rent. There's a bruise forming under his left eye-fresh. Probably from last night's game.

"I'm not your babysitter," you say coolly.

He arches a brow. "What are you, then?"

"Your damage control."

That gets a laugh. "And here I thought they were gonna fire me."

"They're not firing you," you say, walking past him toward the media room. "You sell too many jerseys. They just need you to stop... whatever this is."

"I call it coping," he says, trailing after you like a golden retriever with a concussion. "You ever been dumped by someone who announced it via a Vogue spread?"

You pause. "She dumped you in Vogue?"

"Page eight. Right after a Balenciaga ad."

You blink. "Wow."

He grins. "Yeah. I think it was the phrase 'emotionally unavailable and hot in theory' that really sold it."

You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
This is not funny.
This is your job.
And you will not be another girl he calls trouble just before he ruins her.

By the time your first full week ends, you've rewritten four press statements, staged two photo ops, deleted six tweets, and told Trevor "no" exactly thirty-two times.

He's impossible.

Charming. Ridiculous. Infuriating.

He sends you TikToks at midnight, shows up at your desk with Starbucks labeled Miss PR, and once, during a media scrum, casually told a reporter, "Honestly? She's the only thing keeping me from losing my mind."

You almost threw your phone at him.

Instead, you walked out of the room before anyone could see your cheeks flush.

The first time you see him break is in the hallway, three hours after a brutal OT loss.

The media's gone. His teammates are gone. Even the janitorial staff is gone.

But Trevor?
He's sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, still in his undershirt, bruised and blinking too fast.

You almost walk away.

Almost remind yourself that this-this part of him-is not your job.

But something stops you. Maybe it's the way he doesn't look up when you approach. Maybe it's how quiet his voice is when he finally speaks.

"She was in the crowd tonight," he says.

You freeze. "Brielle?"

He nods.

"She brought a guy." His jaw tightens. "They kissed on the kiss cam."

Silence settles between you like a crack in glass.

You sit beside him.

"I know I'm not supposed to care," he says after a beat. "I know I'm supposed to be over it."

"You're allowed to care, Trevor."

He turns to look at you. Really look at you.

There's something raw in his eyes. Something hollow.
The version of him the internet doesn't get to see.

"You ever love someone who made you feel like you were one wrong move away from losing them?" he asks.

Your chest aches.

You think about answering. Think about telling him yes-but that's too honest.

Instead, you say, "We all make mistakes."

He nods slowly. "Yeah. I just make mine on national TV."

You offer a ghost of a smile. "And on TikTok."

He laughs, the sound cracking in the middle. "God, I'm such a mess."

You meet his gaze.

And you swear-just for a second-he's looking at you like you're the only real thing left in his world.

Like if he could just reach for you, maybe everything would stop spinning.

But you don't let him.

You stand. Brush off your pants. Clear your throat.

"You need to go home."

He nods, like he knows what you're really saying.

No more off-ice drama. And absolutely no personal involvement.

You turn away.

His voice follows you down the hall.

"Hey," he calls out. "You said I was a mess, right?"

You glance back.

He grins, crooked and soft and a little too sincere.

"Just wait 'til I make it hurt."