Chapter Twenty-Seven
Every step toward the exit, toward the media who awaits my statement, makes the tunnel feel longer, like those anxiety dreams where the hallway keeps stretching, and you never reach the door.
Except this is real, and the door definitely exists, and behind it waits a decision that will define me as either loyal or traitorous.
Rocky walks beside me. “You ready?” he asks.
I roll my shoulders back and crane my neck from one side to the other. “Not really,” I say.
We push through the doors and are greeted by a storm of reporters who are congregated by our team bus. Cameras flash like strobe lights. Microphones thrust forward like weapons. The air itself seems to pulse with anticipation.
“Liam! What’s the players’ position?” shouts one.
“Liam, is the NHLPA really willing to go through with this?” shouts another.
“What’s the message to the fans who just want hockey?” yells a third.
The questions overlap, each reporter convinced their specific phrasing will unlock the quote that makes headlines.
I keep my face neutral, hockey player neutral, which is somewhere between constipated and deeply thoughtful.
Rocky steps forward. “Alright, folks, we’re going to keep this short. Liam will be making a statement regarding the players association’s stance on the CBA negotiations. He will not be taking questions. If you have follow-ups, you know the drill—email me in the morning.”
His gaze finds the usual suspects, the reporters who treat boundaries like suggestions. “And for those of you who like to ‘accidentally’ block the team bus, don’t.” Nervous laughter ripples through the crowd, the kind that happens when people realize they’re being specifically called out.
“With that,” Rocky continues, gesturing like a game show host revealing a prize, “I’ll hand it over to the Sentinels’ forward and designated NHLPA rep, Liam LeClerc.”
I step forward, now the epicenter of the media scrum. I open my mouth, but the words I’ve been rehearsing—both versions, both betrayals—evaporate.
I lower my head. The decision pulls me in two directions like a medieval torture device. There’s no clean choice, just different flavors of guilt.
I look up, and that’s when I see them. Past the sea of cameras and carnivorous journalists stand Dewey and a few teammates, lingering by the team bus.
Not watching with expectation or judgment.
Just there. Present. The same guys who buoyed me when I was broken.
Who included me when I was a ghost haunting the edges of practice.
The boys.
They give me a nod. Simple and yet everything.
And suddenly, I know. Not because it’s easy or right or smart. But because some decisions, the right ones, make themselves when you stop thinking and start feeling.
I compose myself once more then lift my chin and begin: “I know these negotiations are never easy,” I say.
“But they’re a necessary part of ensuring that players are protected and that the game continues to grow, not just for us but for future generations of players and the fans who love this sport. ”
I let that land, diplomatic enough for a press release but conveying actual belief at the same time.
“I want to thank the league and ownership for the support they’ve given the Sentinels. Harold Newman has been a first-class owner, and we’ve always appreciated that.”
This is true, even if his wife just tried to buy my soul with a Parsons admission and implied threats.
“But after long discussions within our locker room and across the league, we’ve come to a decision.”
The pause stretches. Every camera focuses. Every breath holds.
“The Sentinels’ players are unanimous in our stance.
We are standing firm. No players are defecting.
We believe in the strength of our position and the importance of making sure this deal is right for the players and for the future of this league.
While we respect the stance of the ownership group, we are unable to accept their changes. ”
The words leave my mouth, and I can’t call them back. I’ve just chosen my team over Claire’s future.
Chaos erupts immediately.
“So, you’re willing to jeopardize the season, Liam? What does this mean for the playoffs? Are you prepared for a lockout?”
The questions crash over each other like waves in a storm nobody’s ready for.
Rocky jumps in, playing defense against the media scrum. “That’s it! No questions, folks! Send me an email, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Let the man get to the bus.”
I cut through the crowd, their questions following like accusations, and step onto the team bus.
The boys have already made their way inside, and once I enter, they erupt.
Dewey’s the first to reach me. “That’s my guy! You didn’t blink.”
The team surrounds me with high-fives and headlocks—the physical vocabulary of men who express emotion through contact sports. They don’t know what I just gave up. They don’t know about Claire’s lie or Bunny’s offer, or the fact that I just essentially told the owner’s wife to go to hell.
They just know I stood with them.
I lower into my seat as the bus doors seal us in, seal the decision—my decision. The camaraderie washes over me like absolution I don’t deserve. This is where I belong. With the boys. Even if it costs me everything else.
The bus pulls away from the arena, leaving the media frenzy behind. But I know this isn’t over. Bunny Newman doesn’t seem like someone who handles rejection well. Claire’s secret is still a ticking bomb. And I’ve just publicly declared war on the ownership group that signs my checks.
But for this moment—this singular moment on the bus home with my boys—I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. And sometimes that’s all you can ask for: to be in the right place, at the right time.
Even if it ends up costing you everything else.