Chapter 21
The Skyway Bridge stretched before me like a metaphor for my life – a steep uphill climb followed by an inevitable, crushing descent.
I'd left St. Pete at dawn, unable to face another moment in my condo as my professional reputation burned to the ground in real time.
My phone had buzzed incessantly until I'd finally silenced it, unable to stomach another notification about #FakeSlashers or another "insider" quote about how I was the evil mastermind behind Cam Murphy's moral corruption and career destruction.
The morning sky matched my mood perfectly.
Heavy gray clouds threatening rain, the usually vibrant Gulf waters dull and choppy beneath the bridge.
As I drove, memories of the last time I'd made this journey flashed through my mind: Cam beside me, his easy laughter filling the car, his hand finding mine across the center console when I got nervous about the height, the almost-kiss at the top of the bridge less than a week ago.
Now I was alone, the passenger seat occupied only by my hastily packed overnight bag and the crushing weight of humiliation.
The sapphire ring weighed down my finger, a constant reminder of what had been within my grasp for one life-changing night before it was all snatched away.
A four-carat anchor I couldn't remove, just in case I was photographed by paparazzi.
Even now, alone in my car, I had to maintain the facade that had already collapsed and threatened to bury me.
By the time I pulled into the shell-paved driveway of my parents' beach house, a light drizzle had started, droplets beading on my windshield like the tears I'd been fighting back for hours.
I sat for a moment, engine off, gathering whatever fragments of composure I could find.
The last thing I wanted was to fall apart the moment I saw my parents.
I'd texted them last night, a brief message saying I needed to get away for a day or two, and they'd responded with love and warmth, just like I knew they would.
MOM: Home is always here for you, sweetheart. We're here if you need us.
No questions, no judgments. Just unconditional support I wasn't sure I deserved after lying to them and dragging our previously unblemished family name through the mud.
Before I could reach for my bag, the front door opened, and my parents appeared on the porch.
My father, stoic as ever in his polo shirt and golf shorts, and my mother in her gardening clothes, a concerned smile on her face.
They didn't rush toward me or bombard me with questions.
They simply waited, giving me the space to approach in my own time.
I grabbed my bag and stepped out into the light rain, forcing a smile that felt brittle on my face.
"Hey," I said, climbing the steps to the porch. "Thanks for letting me crash here."
"You never need permission to come home, Lana," my mother said, pulling me into a hug that smelled of sea salt and her gardening herbs. "We're always happy to see you."
My father's embrace was briefer but no less genuine. "You look like you could use some coffee," he observed, his keen eyes taking in what I was sure were the dark circles under my eyes and the strain in my smile.
"Coffee would be great," I agreed, following them inside.
The house was exactly as it was a few days ago: the same comfy furniture, the same family photos lining the walls, the same scent of salt air and my mother's lavender candles.
But everything felt different now. The happiness I'd felt here with Cam had been built on a foundation that was now crumbling beneath us.
My mother gestured toward the stairs, "Why don't you get settled while I make that coffee?"
I nodded gratefully, relieved for a moment alone to compose myself. As I climbed the familiar stairs, my hand trailing along the banister worn smooth by decades of Decker hands, I braced myself for what awaited me at the top.
My childhood bedroom – the same one Cam and I had shared just days ago. The room where we'd talked into the night, where I'd woken in his arms, where something that had started as pretense had begun to feel real.
I pushed open the door and was immediately assaulted by memories.
The king-sized bed where Cam had slept beside me, his breathing a steady rhythm in the darkness.
The window seat where I'd watched him sleep in the early morning light, confused by the tenderness that had welled up inside me.
The gauzy curtains that had billowed in the sea breeze as we'd navigated the awkward morning-after of our midnight confessions.
I dropped my bag on the floor and sank onto the edge of the bed, finally allowing myself a moment of complete honesty. I missed him. Despite everything – Montreal, the scandal, the hurt – I missed Cam with an ache that permeated every part of my body.
Because I'd spent years building walls around my heart, years convincing myself that what I felt for Cam was nothing more than lingering resentment over a college hookup gone wrong.
Years telling myself that men like Cameron Murphy – heartfelt, charming, gorgeous, universally adored – were exactly the kind I needed to avoid.
Yet here I was, heart shattered by the very man I'd sworn would never touch it again.
With a deep breath, I pulled out my laptop and opened it, determined to at least attempt to do some work. I had a crisis to manage, after all – even if I was at the center of it.
My mom brought me a mug of steaming coffee and set it on the edge of the small desk. "It will all be okay," she said, giving my shoulder a loving squeeze. "You'll see."
For the next hour, I drafted contingency plans, potential statements, and media strategies. I analyzed every angle of the scandal, every possible approach to damage control. I worked methodically, professionally, as if I were handling a crisis for someone else entirely.
And then, in a separate document, I began drafting my resignation letter.
To Marcus Thompson and the St. Petersburg Slashers Organization,
Please accept this letter as formal notification of my resignation from the position of Director of Public Relations, effective immediately.
In light of recent events, I believe it is in the best interest of the organization that I step down. My actions, regardless of intent, have created a situation that compromises both my professional credibility and the team's public image.
It has been my privilege to serve this organization.
I cried as I stared at the words on the screen, the cursor blinking accusingly at me. Was this really how my career with the Slashers would end? A decade of dedication, of breaking barriers, reduced to a scandal and a resignation letter?
But what choice did I have? The team couldn't keep me on after this.
Not when #FireLanaDecker was trending on socials.
Not when sports commentators were dissecting my "manipulation" of Cam for clicks and views.
Not when my inbox was flooded with messages from other PR directors in the league, a mix of sympathy and, in rare cases, barely concealed schadenfreude.
My phone buzzed with a text, and I reluctantly checked it.
KATIE:
Marcus says take all the time you need. And if it helps, the team staff has started a counter-hashtag: #WeStandWithLana
I smiled weakly at their loyalty, but couldn't bring myself to respond. What would I even say?
Thanks, but I've ruined my career, humiliated myself, and possibly lost the man I'm in love with – all because I couldn't admit how I really felt until it was too late.
Instead, I opened Instagram, TikTok, and X – a masochistic impulse I couldn't resist. The hashtag was still trending, the comments a mix of outrage, mockery, and armchair analysis of my professional ethics. I scrolled numbly, each tweet another punch to my already battered self-esteem.
@HockeyFanatic55: PR director creates fake love story to save a sponsorship deal? And we're supposed to believe anything from the Slashers organization now? #FakeSlashers
@PuckLife365: Ten years covering hockey and I've never seen anything this cynical. Fans deserve better than manufactured relationships. #FakeSlashers
@SlashersSuperFan: My daughter looked up to @LanaDecker as a woman succeeding in hockey. What lesson is she learning now? That lying is how women get ahead? Disgusted. #FakeSlashers
I closed the laptop with more force than necessary, unable to stomach any more. The resignation letter could wait. Everything could wait. Right now, I just needed to breathe without feeling like I was drowning.
A soft knock at the door interrupted my spiral. "Lana?" My mother's voice was gentle. "Lunch is ready if you're hungry. We're eating on the deck."
"I'll be right down," I called back, quickly wiping away the tears I hadn't realized kept falling. "Just finishing up something for work."
"Take your time, sweetheart."
I heard her footsteps retreat down the hallway, and I took a moment to compose myself, splashing cold water on my face in the bathroom and taking several deep breaths.
I could do this. I could get through lunch with my parents without falling apart.
I'd faced down hostile press conferences and locker rooms full of agitated hockey players. I could handle a family meal.
The deck was my mother's pride and joy – weathered wood whitewashed to a soft gray, decorated with potted plants and comfortable furniture that invited lingering.
Usually, the view of the Gulf was enough to soothe any troubled mind, but today even the expanse of water stretching to the horizon couldn't calm the storm inside me.
My parents had set lunch at the small table in the corner, a simple spread of sandwiches, fruit, and iced tea. They both looked up as I approached, their smiles warm but cautious.
"There she is," my father said, pulling out a chair for me. "Just in time. Your mother made those crab salad sandwiches you like."
"Thanks, Mom," I said, settling into the seat. "It looks great."