Chapter 40 Making Lemonade （Nate）
MAKING LEMONADE (NATE)
Morning skate scrapes the edge off a sleepless stretch, but the tension stays wired through me.
That’s the thing about being a pro in midseason—you don’t get to numb the ache with a bender.
By the time I hit the locker room, sweat cooling under my hoodie, the guys are quiet.
No chirps. Just sidelong looks. Everyone knows what went down two nights ago.
The image won’t leave me alone—Eden launching herself at Miller, raw fury in her voice as she named what he’d done to her.
Then my fists connecting with his face, over and over, until my teammates dragged me off.
I’d do it again. But watching her relive that trauma, seeing her pain spilling out in front of cameras—that guts me.
Coach’s voice cuts through the silence. “Russo. Upstairs.”
It’s not a request.
The walk up to his office feels endless.
When I push the door open, Rothschild sits in his three-piece armor, hands folded.
Rowan and Jess flank the conference table, laptops open, the glow of damage control written all over their faces.
At the end of the table, Elliot Marks—my agent—adjusts his tie and nods.
Coach doesn’t waste time. “Miller spent a night in the hospital. Concussion protocol.”
My jaw tightens. “Good. The bastard deserved it,” I say flatly. I don’t intend to apologize; I’d do it again if I had the chance.
Rothschild’s gaze is cool. “I’m aware of the circumstances, Russo. His attorney called this morning.”
Elliot clears his throat. “If he files, the NHLPA and I will handle it.”
Rowan flicks a glance up from her screen, mouth curving just slightly. “There will be no need for that. Apparently he’s decided not to pursue charges.”
The breath I didn’t know I was holding escapes. “What?”
“Changed his mind,” Jess says carefully. “Seems he’s got some other issues occupying his attention right now.”
Rowan’s shrug is a little too casual, but I don’t push. Whatever’s happening to Miller, I’ll take it.
Rothschild leans forward, voice sharp. “Don’t mistake this for a free pass, Russo. This franchise does not bleed for one man’s temper—not even yours.” His stare cuts straight through me. “You’re suspended. One game. And you’ll complete community service through the Foundation.”
Coach leans in, eyes hard. “Lindberg starts tonight. Call it a suspension, call it a benching—I don’t care.
” He lets it hang, then growls, “And how many times do I have to say this? Women who work for this team are off limits. You keep pretending you didn’t hear me, and it blows up in our faces every damn time. ”
My fists clench under the table. One game I can swallow. But the weight of what Eden’s going through—what this bastard did to her, plus the canceled clients, the whispers, her business bleeding—that sits heavier than any suspension.
Elliot nods, all business. “One-game suspension, community outreach, statements aligned. That covers the optics.”
Jess slides a folder across the table, voice calm. “The media cycle is contained. Local chatter only, nothing national yet. We’ve got statements queued. Narrative is simple: it’s an internal matter, player is being disciplined, we’re moving forward. No oxygen for anything else.”
Rowan doesn’t even look up from her laptop. “We’ve already seeded talking points to our friendlies on social. By tonight, the headline reads exactly that: ‘Russo disciplined, Defenders move on.’ Anything wilder dies in the comments section.”
Coach grunts his agreement, eyes locking on me. “Done. Russo, you sit one. Reset your focus. And whatever’s going on with Carver, handle it quietly. I don’t want it anywhere near the cycle. Clear?”
I grind my molars, give a sharp nod. “Crystal.”
Dismissed.
The chair legs scrape as I push back, the weight of the room still pressing between my shoulders as I head for the door.
It clicks shut behind us, Rothschild’s warning still buzzing in my skull.
Jess catches my arm, steadying me before I barrel down the hall.
Rowan lingers a step behind, laptop tucked under one arm, phone already at her ear.
“Don’t let him get in your head,” Jess murmurs. “One game, and we keep the story tight. By Monday, the headlines move on.”
“It’s not the game.” I drag a hand over my face. “It’s Eden. Her clinic was just getting started, and now...” I trail off, but Jess reads between the lines.
“Her business will recover. She’s tough.”
“She shouldn’t have to be.” The words come out as a scrape. “This whole mess—the posts from Montreal and the W Miller at the game, her having to relive that nightmare in public—” I exhale and force myself steady. “If they want community outreach, I do it on my terms.”
Jess tilts her head, waiting.
“Not a rubber-chicken gala,” I bite out.
“Not a staged handshake with Rothschild’s friends.
” Adrenaline hums under my skin, the idea sparking as I speak.
“Let’s make lemonade out of this mess. Saturday clinic—youth hockey, injury screens, prevention work—run through the Foundation.
I’ll fund it behind the scenes. Show up for the optics. ”
Her eyes sharpen, the PR queen lining up her shots. “You’re thinking here at the complex?”
“No.” I shake my head. “At Eden’s clinic.
She’s the PT with pro cred. She leads treatment, her new massage hire works recovery.
Kids get real care, parents see her expertise firsthand.
Maybe they book follow-ups.” The words come faster as I build it out.
“And I show up, do the community service requirement, help where she needs me.”
“You want to use your suspension to rebuild her client base.”
“I want to turn the worst week of her life into something that helps her business thrive.” My chest loosens for the first time in days. “If I’m paying a price anyway, let it buy her something real.”
A slow grin spreads across Jess’s mouth. “I can see it.” She starts measured, lands certain. “Paid hours, clean framing, her expertise front and center. And you show your face for community service and PR.” She chuckles under her breath. “Gotta say, Russo, your grovel’s got game.”
“Wouldn’t be possible without you, Novak. I mean, O’Reilly.” My smirk softens. “You steadied the socials; the videos stopped spiraling because of you. Now we get her business back. Bill me like you’ve been doing. Keep it quiet—just frame her name right.”
Jess studies me, all business again. “Perfect. She gets credibility, billable hours, and you get your redemption arc. Russo disciplined, Russo gives back, Carver trusted to treat.”
Footsteps echo down the corridor. Joy breezes up, earbuds looped around her neck, catching the tail end.
“Saturday clinic?” Her eyes light up. “Did I hear that right? It’s exactly what I was seeking for my dance kids.
Connect them with athletic training. We could make this interdisciplinary—hockey and dance together, prevention and recovery.
” She wiggles her brows. “Parents love cross-training. Media loves community collaboration.”
Jess swivels her way, eyebrow raised. “Wait—your dance kids?”
“I teach Broadway at a Harlem dance studio. Sunday mornings.” Joy grins, already walking off.
She waves her hand dismissively at Jessica’s open mouth.
“You never asked.” She spins back, eyes sparkling.
“Text me if we’re in. I’ll loop the studio.
And if it lands? We spin it forward. Summer cross-training camps.
Hockey kids, dance kids, one program. Balance, agility, recovery—parents will line up. ”
Jess lifts a brow, already filing it away. “Future expansion. Noted.”
“As long as Eden’s comfortable with it.” I’m not making decisions for her anymore. “She gets final say on everything—format, timing, who comes.”
“And if this goes well?”
“Monthly clinics. Ongoing partnership. Whatever she wants.” I pause, the weight of the real question settling. “Assuming she still wants anything to do with me after I made a mess out of her life.”
Jess squeezes my forearm. “Only one way to find out. You ready to ask her?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go make some lemonade.”