Chapter 20 - Sean
Chapter twenty
Sean
Wednesday morning, I stood in the kitchen with a mug of coffee that tasted sweeter than usual and watched the sunrise through the window.
My shoulders felt lighter. The guys had fire in their eyes last night, we pulled off the win, and I was still riding the high.
Maybe it was also the way Mel looked stepping out of the shower last weekend—towel wrapped around her hair, barefoot and bossy. Or the sound of her laugh. Or the way her pajama shorts hugged her curves, leaving bare legs sprawled and pressing against mine.
I hadn’t felt that kind of intimacy in a long time, and never with someone who could boss me around and make me like it.
It was ordinary, and somehow extraordinary.
Sharing a bed, teasing each other over towels—those were the kind of small, everyday things I hadn’t realized I craved until Mel gave them to me.
She wasn’t rinkside this week, she was rescheduled to the office after someone called in. But when I scanned the stands last night, I spotted her sitting in the last row of the WAG section. Not hidden but not front and center either.
Ruby’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and cold: Older. Divorced. Baggage. Not you, Melanie.
That slap stung. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was meant to shrink her back into the mold her mother had carved for her.
Mel didn’t owe anyone a safe, neutral life packaged for convenience.
She didn’t need to make sense to her mother or to a world that preferred her polished and predictable.
She had humor, grit, and a damn smart mind that had already brought more value to the team than most in her position ever could.
But she sat in the back of that section, the staff section, when she could’ve sat forward with the WAGs. And that twisted something in my chest.
I hated that she had to second-guess who she was allowed to be, that her instinct was to shrink instead of owning her worth. That someone as good as Mel still had to brace for judgment just for wanting to live out loud—it gutted me.
My pulse kicked harder. I wanted to be the guy who helped her walk into every room owning her worth—heels, flats, fuzzy socks, whatever. Because she did. With or without me, she did. And I wanted her to know, without a doubt, that she was with me. Forty, older, divorced, and public, me.
My phone buzzed. Ben.
“Morning, Murph. Hell, man, you’ve got them skating scared again.”
“We needed it,” I said, glancing at the stat board I’d printed out. “They played tight; we played tighter.”
“That comeback? That wasn’t only coaching. Looks like your cutie, Mel, is giving you extra fire.”
“Yeah, quite a cutie for real,” I said, chuckling.
He chuckled too. “Come on. Don’t downplay the secret weapon. I saw that look on your face when I met her last weekend. I know that look.”
I didn’t answer.
“You’re not only gunning for the Cup,” Ben went on. “You’ve got a real reason, and I gotta say—I’m happy for you, man.”
We hung up after that. I grabbed my keys and headed to work.
Walking through the tunnel, already picturing a second cup of coffee and a five-minute buffer before setting up practice, Asher stopped me mid-stride.
“Coach, I was about to text you.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Have you seen Mel this morning?”
I lifted a brow. “Not yet. Why?”
Asher lowered his voice. “You should find her before she sees this.”
He turned his phone toward me. The screen took a second to load, then split into two images.
On the left: me and Mel at Sam’s party, her in that flowery dress, my hand resting on her back, both of us mid-smile.
On the right: a cropped shot from a charity gala years ago.
Me in a suit, standing beside Evie—my then-wife.
The caption still visible: Coach Murphy and wife Evie at the Hockey for Hope fundraiser.
The headline screamed: From Glamorous Ex to New Flame. Youngest NHL Coach Scores On and Off the Ice.
“Damn it,” I muttered, skimming the article.
A speculative caption about Tahoe West’s coach, his “new girl,” and his ex-wife, who’d moved up the ladder. She was engaged to the CEO of her company.
A prickle climbed the back of my neck. “Alright. Thanks.”
Asher nodded and walked off.
My breathing shortened, jaw clenched so tight it felt like air couldn’t get through. Heat burned in my chest. If my mug hadn’t been ceramic, it would’ve shattered in my grip.
I needed space. I made my way to the conference room, shut the door behind me, and planted both hands on the table. Head down, I dragged in a deep, needed breath.
She’d moved up the ladder, if you believed the gloss—an engagement ring, a corner office, curated success.
Evie had cried and apologized. I’d listened, calmer than I ever expected to be.
Maybe because of all the years she postponed kids for work, or the endless travel that kept us passing each other like strangers.
By then, I didn’t have much fight left in me.
Her fling didn’t wreck our marriage; it confirmed what was already eroded.
In a twisted way, it was a relief. It stopped us from starting a family, only to raise a kid in silence and resentment.
At that fundraiser, when that photo was taken, the same man had shaken my hand, cracked jokes, and laughed with Evie as if they were old friends. Now I had a gnawing suspicion it hadn’t been that innocent.
If I was right, Mel had just walked into something a hell of a lot messier than a side-by-side before-and-after picture.
The headline was a problem, but my past colliding with my present?
That was a real mess. My ex’s history, my suspicions, and a gossip page hungry for clicks—old wounds reopened, and unanswered questions surfaced things I never thought to dig up.
And Mel—Mel would be measured against a ghost she never asked to compete with, in front of an audience that didn’t care about truth or context.
Back then, I hadn’t cared to know who it was besides a colleague from work, knowing wouldn’t have changed the betrayal. But now, the acid burning in my gut was eating me alive.
Had Evie been with him all along?
The muscle on the side of my neck went taut.
Showing up at Sam’s party as Mel’s boyfriend had felt simple. Not a set up for a love-triangle between new versus ex. Now, people would whisper, guess, watch. And that lit every fuse in me.
I could handle the press. I’d done it for years. But Mel wasn’t ready—not when she preferred the back row, not after everything she’d done to keep her family afloat.
I pulled out my phone and texted her.
Me: Hey, Cutie, are you here yet? I came in early.
Mel: Just leaving home now.
Me: K. Text me when you get in. Drive safe.
I messaged the team to start warm-ups with Dane, told them I had a holdup. Playoffs or not, I needed ten minutes to figure out whether we were catching fire or about to get burned.
Next, I called Nathan, our PR guy. Told him to look into the post.
Then I dialed Maria.
“Hey,” I said when she picked up. “I need a quick heads-up on something. Media-related, not hockey ops. If it’s possible, can you spare Mel when she gets in? I’d like to loop her in with PR.”
“Got it. I’ll flag her,” she said, no questions asked.
I hung up and dumped the rest of my coffee in the sink. My stomach couldn’t handle it.
Thirty minutes later, Nathan and I met in the third-floor conference room. His face was unreadable, as always.
“I found it,” he said, and slid the iPad across the table. “It’s from a sports gossip page that thrives on public photos and creative framing. Someone grabbed this party shot of you and Melanie off social media and paired it with an old press photo of you and Evie.”
I exhaled through my nose, slow and sharp.
My phone blinked.
Mel: Walking in now.
Me: Can you come to the third-floor conference room? I’m here.
Mel: What’s going on?
Me: We’ll explain when you get here.
I glanced at Nathan. “Let’s wait. Mel’s here.”
A few minutes later, a soft knock tapped the door.
“Come in,” I called.
Mel opened the door slowly, peeking in, eyes landing on me, then Nathan before stepping inside. Her shoulders were tight, her posture guarded.
She shut the door gently behind her. “Okay…?”
I stood. “Come in.”
She crossed the room and took a seat beside me.
Nathan gave her a polite nod. “Hi, Melanie. I’m Nathan. I handle PR for Tahoe West. I’ll explain.”
She still, eyes flicked to mine, then back to him.
Nathan scrolled on the iPad and placed it in front of Mel. “This photo is circulating.” It was the same one Asher showed me earlier.
“Your ex-wife?” Mel’s voice came out like a shocked breath.
I nodded.
Nathan glanced at me, then back to her. “It’s from a sports gossip page that feeds on sensationalism.
They framed this as an ‘old versus new’ narrative—an NHL coach, top-five team, an ex who leveled up, and his new flame.
That gets traction. It doesn’t matter that the separation was three years ago, or that the divorce was finalized last year, or that you, Melanie, have nothing to do with his ex. They only want the contrast.”
I felt Mel’s shoulders stiffen even more.
Nathan continued, calm and clinical. “They pulled public details and packaged them into a headline-worthy ‘then and now.’ The party photo was easy to spot on social media.”
Mel’s mouth flattened. “So my prize for dating you is being put side by side with your ex?”
I reached over and squeezed her hand. “And somehow, you still came out on top.”
Her eyes didn’t soften. “From one freaking picture, they build this whole story?” Disbelief was written all over her face. “So, creators are paying rent off my face, and I have to smile and pretend this isn’t grossly invasive.” Her tone was dry, stripped of emotion.
“Unfortunately normal for people adjacent to pro sports,” Nathan said. “The moment you showed up on a coach’s arm, you entered the WAG scouters’ orbit. You’re not a public figure, but you’re in the crosshairs.”
He tapped his tablet. “We’re watching this. If things escalate, we’ll see what can be done. But the law is very weak on this kind of exposure.”
Mel glanced at me. “Maybe I should’ve picked a boyfriend with less paparazzi potential.” Her voice was flat, the tone biting.
I felt the sting. “That’s how I feel too. Some days I wish I had someone else’s life.”
A beat of silence passed before Nathan spoke again.
“That’s all from me for now, but I’m just a call away,” he said, standing. He offered Mel a polite smile. “Take care, Melanie.”
“Thanks,” she replied.
As the door clicked shut, I checked that the In Meeting sign was still up.
Mel sat stiff in the chair, her shoulders drawn tight like she was holding back the whole world.
Not thinking twice, I stood and pulled her into me.
She froze for half a beat, then melted against my chest, her forehead resting on my collarbone.
The way she let go in my arms was nothing like the calm she carried in front of everyone else—this was raw, fragile, her body softening completely against me.
I held her there, breathing her in, giving her something solid to lean on.
“I’m sorry you had to get hit with this crap first thing,” I murmured, reluctant to let go.
She lifted her head to look at me. “You don’t need to apologize, none of this is your doing. It’s just… who you are.”
That dry edge in her voice, the one she used when everything was one breath away from cracking, settled between us.
“Still. I hate that this might make you rethink the job, the team, everything.”
Mel exhaled. “I like my job; I don’t regret getting it. But taking a picture with you that close…”
My mouth curved. “You never hate it when I’m this close.”
She gave me a sideways glance. “No, but now there’s a rethink button flashing.”
That worried me. “Cutie, this is hitting you very hard. It’s hitting me very hard too, and that damn picture is already out there.”
“I know…”
I tightened my arms around her. “Can we let it sit and talk about it later?”
That earned me a small smile, and I relaxed.
Eventually, we eased apart, both of us reluctant to break the hold.
“I didn’t think I’d care this much,” Mel said. “We knew there’d be talk eventually. But seeing that headline…”
I entwined her fingers with mine. “It crossed a line. Hell, dragging in my ex for visibility, it pisses me off.”
Mel thought for a moment.
“I feel like wearing a giant foam puck to hide from all the glances.”
“Whatever comes, in mascots’ wardrobes or what have you, we’ll face it together.”
She exhaled again slowly.
“I’m looking forward to hanging out with you after work,” I said.
She locked eyes with me. I held her gaze steady to make sure she got the message. I wanted to see her tonight.
We left the conference room, and out of nowhere, I found myself bracing for someone to call out to us and mention that headline.
Hell. Subconscious trauma, loud and clear.
I glanced at Mel. She looked tense too, more so than she had minutes ago when we were alone behind closed doors.
I wanted to pull her in again, to remind her she wasn’t alone in this. Later. Tonight.
We split at the elevator, Mel heading to her department, me down to the rink.
Practice still needed running. Playoffs were on the line, and every second counted, but this PR mess had shifted the day in a way neither of us was ready for.
Everyone out there would now know we were together. That, I’d wanted. Just not like this.