Chapter 21 #3
He tapped the table for emphasis, his knuckles hitting the wood with the same rhythm he used on the boards behind the bench.
"I'm proud to pass the Decker torch to all my kids – not just to Zayne and Drake.
You've always had the best instincts. Seeing all the possibilities, doing what's right for the team and the players, even when it costs you personally.
That's what makes you great at your job. "
My throat tightened with emotion. In all my years working in hockey, I'd never heard my father speak about my career with such pride.
"The Decker name in hockey isn't just about who can skate fastest or shoot hardest," he continued, his voice rough with emotion. "It's about understanding the game – all aspects of it. The strategy, the psychology, the business. And nobody gets that better than you do."
He reached across the table, his calloused hand covering mine in a rare gesture of physical affection. "You don't just belong in hockey, Lana. You're leading in hockey. And someday, maybe sooner than you think, I see you running the whole damn team."
The words landed like a slam drop – unexpected, powerful, knocking the air from my lungs. I'd always seen myself as an adjunct to the real action, the support staff behind the scenes. But my father was talking about me as if I were the future of the organization itself.
"You really believe that?" I asked, my voice small.
"I know it," he said with characteristic certainty.
"Champions aren't made during the easy shifts – they're forged in the penalty kill after a five-minute major.
This scandal is just your time in the box, Lana.
The game isn't over; you're just waiting to get back on the ice and show everyone what you're made of. "
My mother squeezed my other hand, her touch gentle but firm. "Your father's right." She shot him a fond look before turning back to me. "And there's something else we need to talk about, Lana."
I knew what was coming, and part of me wanted to flee the conversation. But I'd already laid my professional life bare; what was left but to confront the personal?
"Cam," I said softly.
"Cam," she agreed. "We know why you felt you couldn't tell us the truth about your arrangement. But I think the person you were really lying to was yourself."
I opened my mouth to protest, but she continued, her voice gentle but insistent.
"We've watched you light up every time Cam walks into a room. You're the only one who thought you were faking it." She smiled, a knowing look in her eyes. "Everyone else could see it – you two are meant to be together."
"But the trade… "
"Trade offers come and go," my father said with a dismissive wave. "Good ones get rejected all the time."
"And what if he takes it?" I asked, voicing the fear that had been gnawing at me since the meeting. "What if he leaves?"
"Then you'll face that challenge too," my mother said simply. "But not by running away or hiding how you feel. By facing it together."
The simple wisdom in her words struck a chord deep within me. I'd spent so long protecting myself, building walls, keeping my feelings locked away where they couldn't hurt me. And where had it gotten me? Alone, heartbroken, contemplating resignation from the job I loved.
"I'm scared," I admitted, the words barely audible. "I've never felt like this before. And if he leaves..."
"Then at least you'll know you were honest," my mother said. "With him and with yourself. That's all any of us can really do."
My father cleared his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable with the emotional turn of the conversation but determined to see it through. "You're a Decker," he said gruffly. "We don't back down from challenges. We face them head-on."
A memory surfaced – my father saying those exact words to me when I was twelve, nervous before my first public speaking competition. I'd won first place that day, surprising everyone but him. He'd simply nodded, as if he'd expected nothing less.
"What would you tell one of your players right now?" he asked, shifting into coaching mode. "If they came to you in this situation, what would you say?"
I considered the question, forcing myself to think as the PR director rather than the woman in the middle of the storm. "I'd tell them... that people are more forgiving than you expect. That one mistake doesn't define a career. That the best response to a setback is to come back stronger."
My father nodded approvingly. "Sounds like good advice to me."
For the first time in days, I felt something other than despair – a small spark of determination, of the fighting spirit that had carried me through countless challenges in my career. Maybe I couldn't control what happened with Cam or the scandal, but I could control how I responded to it.
"I'm not going to resign," I said, the decision crystallizing as I spoke the words. "I'm going to fight this. Fix it."
The pride in my parents' eyes was worth more than any championship ring.
"That's my girl," my father said, satisfaction evident in his voice.
My mother squeezed my hand. "And what about Cam?" she asked gently.
Did I love him? Yes, I could admit that now, at least to myself. But was love enough to overcome everything else – the scandal, the potential trade, the years of misunderstandings?
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "I need to figure out how to fix the PR disaster first. Then I'll figure out the Cam situation."
My father nodded, accepting this prioritization as sensible. My mother looked less convinced but didn't push.
"One step at a time," she agreed, setting a fresh mug of coffee before me. "But don't wait too long, Lana. Some opportunities don't come around twice. Well, thrice."
I knew she wasn't just talking about Cam now, but about life in general – about seizing chances, about being brave enough to reach for what you want.
After dinner, I retreated to my room, emotionally drained but somehow lighter than I'd been in the last 24 hours.
The conversation with my parents had been a revelation in more ways than one: not just their support for my career, but their insight into my feelings for Cam, feelings I'd been denying even to myself.
I sat at the small desk by the window, looking out at the Gulf waters now turned silver in the moonlight. The storm had passed, leaving a clear night sky scattered with stars. It felt like an omen, though whether good or bad remained to be seen.
My laptop sat open before me, the resignation letter still on the screen, the cursor blinking at the end of a sentence I would never complete. With a decisive click, I deleted the entire document, watching with satisfaction as the words disappeared.
In their place, I opened a new document and began typing:
Crisis Management Plan
Step 1: Address the narrative head-on. No hiding, no deflecting.
Step 2: Correct factual inaccuracies in reporting, discredit source if found
Step 3: Acknowledge the arrangement without apology – NDAs are standard practice.
Step 4: Emphasize that no official statements claiming "engagement" were ever made.
Step 5: Focus on moving forward, not looking back.
It was just a start, but it felt good to be thinking strategically again, to be doing what I did best – managing difficult situations, crafting narratives, finding the path through the storm.
My phone rang, startling me out of my focus. I glanced at the screen, expecting another reporter or perhaps Marcus checking in. Instead, Coco's name flashed on the display.
I hesitated, my finger hovering over the answer button. Part of me wanted to continue avoiding the world, but Coco had been nothing but supportive, and I owed her at least the courtesy of picking up.
"Hey," I answered, my voice still rough from crying all afternoon.
"Lana," Coco's relief was audible. "Thank god. I've been worried sick about you."
"I'm okay," I said automatically, then amended, "Well, not okay, exactly, but... surviving."
"Where are you? Logan and I stopped by your place, but you weren't there."
"I'm at my parents' beach house in Siesta Key. I needed to... get away for a bit."
"Smart move," Coco said. "The press was camped outside the training facility all day.
" There was background noise on her end – announcements, the murmur of conversations.
"Listen, I'm at the airport right now. The team flew out to Boston this morning, and I'm headed there with the other WAGs for tomorrow's game. "
"Right. The Bruins." In the chaos of the scandal, I'd almost forgotten about the regular season schedule. "How's the team?"
There was a slight pause. "They're... processing.
Most of them are just pissed about how you're being treated in the press.
Logan's furious about the way that HockeyInsider article painted you as some kind of evil villain. The guys keep telling him they can’t wait for the media blackout to be over so they can defend you. "
I closed my eyes, a wave of gratitude washing over me. "Tell him thanks. Tell them all thanks."
"Actually," Coco continued, "that's part of why I'm calling.
Trixie, Coach Sully's wife, has arranged for a private box for tomorrow's game.
She wanted me to tell you that if you want to fly up to Boston, the WAGs will protect you in the box and keep the press away.
She says, and I quote, 'Those vultures will have to go through all of us first.'"
I was momentarily speechless. Trixie Michaels was a formidable woman who took her role as the coach's wife and unofficial team mom seriously. The thought of her marshaling the players' wives and girlfriends into a defensive box around me was both touching and slightly terrifying.
"I... I don't know, Coco," I said finally. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm not sure I'm ready to face…"
"Just think about it," she interrupted gently. "The offer stands. We've got your back, Lana. All of us."
I swallowed against the sudden lump in my throat. "That's... thank you. I'll think about it."
There was a beat of silence before I gathered the courage to ask the question that had been burning in my mind. "How is he? Cam, I mean."
Coco sighed. "Honestly? He's all over the place. He didn't want to go home last night, stayed in our guest room. Logan said he's cycling between being livid about how you're being treated in the press, heartbroken over you, stressed about the Montreal trade, then back to anger again."
My heart clenched. "Was he... did he seem okay at practice today?"
"Define okay," Coco said dryly. "He was unfocused in the short practice this morning – missed passes, botched drills. Then he got into a shoving match with Hendricks over some comment about you. Logan had to physically separate them."
"Oh god," I murmured, pinching the bridge of my nose.
"Logan's worried about him," she admitted. "Says he's never seen Cam this distracted before a game. But he also says – " She broke off abruptly.
"What?" I pressed. "What does Logan say?"
She hesitated. "He says he's never seen Cam care about anyone or anything this much before. Not even hockey."
Her words stole my breath. I pressed my palm flat against my chest, as if I could somehow contain the ache blooming there.
I heard an announcement in the background. "They're calling my flight. But Lana?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever you decide about tomorrow, Boston or not, just know the team is behind you one hundred percent. No matter what HockeyInsider or those jerks on social media say."
"Thank you," I whispered, genuinely moved by her loyalty. "That means more than you know."
"Take care of yourself. And think about Boston," she added before hanging up.
I set the phone down, my mind spinning with this new information. Cam was struggling. The team was rallying. I had to find a way forward through this mess.
Outside, the waves continued their eternal conversation with the shore, a reminder that some things remained constant even as everything else changed. I'd always found comfort in that sound – the steady rhythm of water against sand, nature's own heartbeat.
Turning back to my laptop, I continued working on my plan with renewed determination. I was Lana Decker, PR director for the St. Petersburg Slashers, daughter of Frank Decker, sister to Zayne and Drake, and – for better or worse – the woman who had fallen hopelessly in love with Cameron Murphy.
I didn't know if I could fix everything that had broken between us. I didn't know if Cam would stay with the team or take the Montreal offer. I didn't even know if my career would survive this scandal intact.
But I did know one thing with absolute certainty: I wasn't giving up without a fight. Not on my career, not on the team, and maybe – if I could find the courage – not on Cam either.
Tomorrow, I would begin the work of rebuilding – my reputation, my career, and maybe, if I was brave enough, my heart.
And maybe, just maybe, I would go to Boston.