Chapter 13
Cillian
The private airport lounge in San Francisco feels uncomfortably small even though it's actually huge. Maybe it's just my fucking worldview since the incident, where every four walls feel like they're closing in on me.
Derek and our lead PR strategist Angela are settled into the leather armchairs across from me, deep in the pre-flight strategy session. Margot is across from me too, her head bent over a planner, appearing determined to look anywhere and everywhere but my direction.
I feel like I’m going to explode.
"Damage control is always a bit of a marathon," Derek says, leaning back with a tired sigh. "Hockey fans are notoriously vicious. But hopefully this Dublin run, with all the youth sports charity events on the docket, will start to turn the tide."
"Optics are everything, Cillian." Angela nods, her tone as clinical as a scalpel.
"We need you to appear humble, remorseful, and focused on charity work while you're away from the rink.
And your performance on the ice will have to be flawless the second you return, or the press will rip you to shreds. "
"Mm," I grunt, which is the most I can manage without losing my temper entirely.
As if I'm not already fucking drowning in remorse. As if I'm not desperate to be back on that ice, helping the team instead of playing the part of a professional apologizer.
I've let down the lads I spend more time with than my own family, alienated the fans, and possibly sabotaged my entire future. They won't have to worry about me performing remorse. But if they expect me to stand up there and say I should have let that assault happen, they can go straight to hell.
“And socials stay dark for the duration.” Derek nods. "Apart from the statement we already put out. The rest comes from external sources."
I nod, staring out at the tarmac. The social silence I can manage. It's the rest of the circus that's grinding me down.
"One piece of good news," Derek adds, scrolling his phone. "The guy you hit has gone very quiet. Turns out it's hard to lawyer up when there's footage of him grabbing a woman and a police report with his name on it. His lawyer stopped returning calls the day Margot's report landed."
Margot keeps her head down, focused on her planner, but I spot a tiny, satisfied smile on her lips.
I drag a hand down my face. Angela and Derek continue their debate over media strategies, and I look over at Margot. She's bent over her planner, scribbling something intently. The silence between us is starting to feel like a physical weight on my chest and I can't take another second of it.
I stand up abruptly. "Margot, can I talk to you for a minute? Privately?"
Margot's eyes shoot up, wide and startled. "Uh… yeah. Sure."
She rises and I steer her toward the tall windows at the far end of the lounge. It hasn’t even been two full days since my career imploded and we fucked against a wall. Between the media pressure, the guilt of letting the team down, and the relentless loop of her in my head, I'm losing my mind.
We stop by the glass, the runway stretching out toward the hills, and I lean in. "You haven't been responding to my texts."
"That's not entirely true," she says, her gaze fixed on a departing jet. "I confirmed all the travel logistics."
"You know those aren't the texts I'm talking about, Ace," I say. "I'm not trying to give you a hard time about it. I just don't want to fly five thousand miles pretending nothing happened."
"I don't want to pretend either." She lets out a slow breath. "Everything is just so messy that I've been avoiding it. Plus there's your whole suspension. Even with my limited hockey knowledge, I gather it's a professional death sentence."
Understatement of the century.
"Aye," I say, looking away. "But like I told you, there's nothing but to grind through the mess. I'll just have to hope I can salvage my reputation with the squad and the fans when we get back."
I try not to dwell on the alternative. I never planned on being a lifer in the rink, one of those lads who collects concussions because they don't know how to walk away.
I'm twenty-seven, and the plan was always to hoist the Cup, put in a few more elite years, and then exit gracefully while my knees still worked to enjoy the spoils. I never pictured the curtain coming down this fast, or leaving behind such an ugly wreck of a legacy.
She looks up at me, her expression softening. "You're a good man and a good player, Cillian. They'll see that."
"Well, I appreciate the vote of confidence," I say. "But we still need to clear the air before we land in Dublin. Don't think I'm letting you change the subject."
She laughs. "It's all connected though isn’t it?"
"That's true," I nod. "I hate that I've let the team and the fans down, and that I maybe just torched my entire career.
But I won't pretend I'm sorry I stepped in, because I'd do it again without a second's thought.
The only part that actually eats at me is the thought that I made things harder for you.
If any of it has hurt you, Ace, I'm sorry. "
"Yeah, well." She tucks her hair behind her ear. "I really do hate the whole men-throwing-punches-to-defend-a-woman's-honor routine. But… I do appreciate you having my back and stepping in for me. And it was kind of hot that you did, if I'm being honest."
I raise a brow. "Kind of hot, was it?"
"I think I made that pretty clear the other night." She smiles.
I draw in a breath, and it's now or never.
"I like you, Margot. A lot. I know I'm not usually the type to pursue anything beyond a night or two, and I don't even know exactly when it started, maybe even at that first launch party. But it's been there ever since. And I really want to fucking see you again.”
She stares at me, eyes wide, and the silence stretches for what feels like an eternity.
"Ace, you have to say something. You can tell me to go to hell, you can tell me you're not interested, but you've got to give me something here." I let out a low breath, running a hand through my hair again.
"I'm sorry, I just…" She closes her eyes for a second. "I wasn't expecting you to be so, I don't know, blunt or whatever. I don't think anyone's ever said something like that to me."
"But when I see something I want, I go for it. And I want you." I hold her gaze.
"Cillian," she says softly. "I'm not going to pretend I don't have feelings for you. But this is a complete media circus, and it’s a work trip for me with a huge amount of oversight.
I think the most professional thing is to keep things strictly business on this trip.
Let the dust settle, let the suspension play out.
Then, when we're back in the States, we figure out what we want to do, and if we want to... "
"Date?" I ask, a slow grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.
"Gosh." She grins, looking a touch smug. "Showing your cards remarkably early, aren't you?"
"I'm finished playing games with you. You win."
She smiles and fiddles with the gold pendant at her throat. "There is still my 'no athletes' policy to contend with, which I know seems silly, but this is just… a lot. I do like you, Cillian, but I think we should be professional and survive this trip. Then we can figure out all the dirty details."
I arch an eyebrow. "Dirty details?"
"Don't even think about it." She laughs.
"Ace, it's literally all I can fucking think about."
Dublin, Ireland
Even though my professional reputation is currently in the toilet, half the squad wants my head on a pike, and I'm enduring the torture of being this close to Margot without being allowed to touch her, it's at least nice to be back home.
Though I could do without the crushing weight of being thousands of miles away while my team plays the most important games of the year without me. But hey. At least the fucking press tour is going great.
We're less than twenty-four hours into the Dublin leg and already buried in foundation events, which means I'm stuck in a loop of media scrums, reciting the same sanitized talking points that Derek and PR painstakingly vetted.
I lean against the wall of the school exterior, the afternoon sky a heavy, bruised grey, and watch the announcer launch into an emphatic introduction for the evening's keynote, when I see Margot making her way toward me.
She's pretty much the only good thing in all of this, and any time I'm not around her my mood plummets into the dirt thinking about the game I'm missing.
"Surviving the local press, Ace?” I say as she slides up beside me.
"Barely. If one more person asks about that creep in the stands, I am walking straight into the sea.
" She leans her head back against the stone wall, her gaze scanning the crowd.
"Why can't they focus on Solstice's charitable contributions?
I understand the scandal is news, but it's exhausting. Is it always this pushy?"
"That's the press for you."
She nods out at the street, at the rows of red brick and the church spire poking up past the rooftops. "So this is where you grew up, after your family moved from Galway?"
"Yep." I nod. "But wait until you see Galway. Last stop of the tour, and I'd put it up against anywhere in the country. Well… Sligo and Donegal are pretty close. But still."
"Better than Dublin? Because this has already been pretty magical, and that's just from the little I've seen today. It's sooo charming." She gestures vaguely at the whole street, like she's trying to take it all in at once.
"Much better. I love Dublin and have fond memories of growing up, but Galway's home."
"How old were you when you left?" She angles her face up at me.
"Thirteen. We all moved to Dublin when my dad got a job here. Then I spent half my life in Canada once hockey took off." I look down at her. "A bit all over the place, really. But I'll always be loyal to Galway."
“Well, I'm in full tourist mode, rose-colored glasses and all. I think I've taken a hundred photos of the most mundane things already." Her smile falters. "I just wish I didn't have that work event for tonight. I'd much rather keep exploring."
"You're remarkably unlucky to have gotten sucked into that," I say, shaking my head.
“How on earth did you get out of it?” She narrows her eyes at me. "Aren't you like their poster boy?"
I flash her a crooked smile. "Charm and a very expensive manager."
She rolls her eyes and I laugh, glancing back at the makeshift stage before my gaze returns to her.
"Does your whole family still live in the city?" she asks, leaning in with her voice low.
"Aye, Mam and Dad, and all four sisters. Though Lily, the second youngest, is heading off to London for theatre work soon," I say. "And then of course the extended family is all over. Dad's side is in Canada, and Mam's side is mostly up in Donegal."
"Where is Donegal?" she asks.
"It's a county up in the north," I say. "My mam grew up there, before she moved to Galway for university and met my dad. Wild coastline, big empty beaches, proper surf country. She says it's the most beautiful place on earth, and she's not far wrong."
"Yeah?" She smiles, her eyes brightening. "Did you spend a lot of time there growing up?"
"Yeah. My mam's sisters all still live up there with my cousins, so we'd go up all the time. Half our holidays were spent in Donegal." I look down at her, voice dropping. "Maybe I'll get to take you up sometime."
She nods slowly, her gaze lingering on mine. When it drops to my lips, the restraint I've been white-knuckling all morning nearly snaps. I want to pull her in and claim her right here on the pavement, to hell with the cameras and the consequences.
"Cillian!" Derek's bark cuts through the electricity like a siren, and we both jerk our heads toward him.
He makes a frantic 'get over here' motion. "Let's go, we've got more hands to shake."
I exhale and give Margot a small, pained look before peeling myself off the stone wall to follow him.
The rest of the day is back-to-back media interviews and flashing bulbs, and that night I'm awake at three in the morning anyway, watching the score tick over on my phone.
Against Vegas, the lads down by one halfway through the second, and me five thousand miles away in a hotel bed.
Every notification is the crushing guilt of my own recklessness hitting all over again.
Getting benched during the playoffs is a fucking nightmare—a professional gut-punch that feels every bit as career-threatening as a torn ACL. And I’m the only one to blame. It’s torture not being in that locker room, suiting up and bleeding with my teammates.
And because the universe has a sense of humor, the next notification is a pundit clip from a New York presser. Brennan, asked about my suspension, giving the cameras a shrug with a shit-eating grin.
"Well I can’t say I’m shocked since he’s been a hothead lately,” he says. “Or maybe he was trying to avoid having to face me again and the humiliation of a second loss."
God, I fucking hate this.