Chapter 22
Iwoke up to the Florida sunlight blasting me in the eyes. For the first time in days, I didn't immediately feel the crushing weight of humiliation pressing down on my chest. Instead, I felt something that had been missing since the scandal broke: determination.
My father's words echoed in my mind: Champions aren't made during the easy shifts – they're forged in the penalty kill after a five-minute major.
This was my penalty kill. And I sure as hell wasn't going to spend it hiding in Siesta Key.
I'd just finished showering when my phone rang. Coco's name flashed across the screen, and I answered while towel-drying my hair.
"Morning," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.
"You sound better," Coco observed immediately.
"Better than yesterday. Had a good talk with my parents."
"Good." There was a pause. "So, listen. Trixie wanted me to remind you that the offer stands. If you want to come to Boston, we've got you covered."
I hesitated, my eyes drifting to the sapphire on my finger. Two weeks ago, I'd been determined to keep this fake engagement strictly professional. Now, after everything that had happened, I wasn't sure what was real anymore. Except one thing: I missed Cam. And I was tired of running.
"There's a flight at noon. I can text you the details…" Coco offered.
"Do that please," I said, already mentally packing. "I'll see if I can get on it."
By the time I hung up, I'd pulled out the small duffel bag I'd hastily packed when fleeing St. Pete, dumping its contents onto the bed.
One professional outfit, two casual, toiletries, phone charger.
What did you pack for a public reunion with your fake fiancé after a public scandal and possible trade bombshell?
I texted the team's travel coordinator with the flight information, and headed downstairs.
My parents were having coffee on the deck, the morning sun glinting off the Gulf waters, now calm after yesterday's storm.
"I'm going to Boston," I announced, setting my bag down and pouring myself a cup of coffee.
My mother looked surprised, but pleased. "For the game tonight?"
I nodded. "Coco says the WAGs have a plan to keep me away from the press. I'll stay at the team hotel, watch the game from their box, and fly back tomorrow."
My father studied me over the rim of his coffee mug. "You sure you're ready for that?"
"No," I admitted. "But I'm not hiding anymore." I need to face this – all of it. Including Cam."
A slow smile spread across my father's face. "That's my girl."
Frank Decker wasn't one for flowery sentiments or lengthy heart-to-hearts. But in those three words, I heard everything: his pride, his support, his absolute confidence that I was making the right choice.
My mother squeezed my hand. "What can we do?"
"I'll need to drive myself to the airport so I have my car when I get back," I said, mentally calculating the timing. "Can you help me find something warmer to wear? I don't have anything for Boston in October."
Twenty minutes later, I was wearing my mother's cashmere wrap and had a ticket booked on the noon flight to Boston. As I hugged my parents goodbye, my father held on a second longer than usual.
"Lana," he said, his voice gruff with emotion, "whatever happens in Boston, remember what I said. You belong in hockey. Not because you're my daughter, but because you've earned it."
I blinked back sudden tears and nodded against his shoulder. "Thanks, Dad."
"And tell Cam – " he hesitated, then shook his head with a small smile. "Never mind. You'll figure it out."
The drive to Tampa International gave me too much time to think.
What was I doing? Flying across the country to surprise a man who might be leaving the team – leaving me – for Montreal?
What would I even say to him? Sorry I ran away?
Sorry I didn't trust you? Sorry I've been pushing you away for years because I've been afraid of my feelings since that night in college?
All of the above, probably.
The Tampa airport was mercifully free of journalists, though I kept my sunglasses on and a baseball cap pulled low just in case. As I settled into my window seat on the plane, I pulled out my phone to text Coco.
ME: On the noon flight to Boston. Landing at 3:15.
Her reply was immediate.
COCO: Yay! I'll have a car waiting for you under my name. Trixie's got everything arranged. We're staying at the Four Seasons with the team. She's put you in my room so no one sees your name on the hotel register.
ME: Does Cam know I'm coming?
There was a longer pause before her response.
COCO: No. Logan doesn't even know. Thought it might be better as a surprise. Less pressure on everyone.
ME: Good call. Thanks for being such a good friend. See you soon.
I put my phone in airplane mode and leaned back, watching Florida disappear beneath the clouds. Three hours to Boston. Three hours to figure out what I was going to say to Cam when I saw him again.
The flight passed in a blur of half-formed speeches and aborted text drafts. None of them seemed right. How do you distill ten years of misunderstandings, weeks of pretending, and days of heartbreak into words that make sense?
By the time we landed at Logan International, I still had no idea.
The blast of cold air that hit me as I exited the terminal was a shock after Florida's perpetual warmth. I pulled my mother's wrap tighter around me, grateful for it but already regretting not bringing proper winter gear. Boston in October was a different planet from Siesta Key.
A sleek black SUV idled at the curb, with a small sign affixed to the passenger window that read "Coco Charmant."
I knocked lightly on the window, and the driver quickly stepped out to greet me.
"Car for Ms. Charmant? I'm Peter, with the Four Seasons."
"Thank you," I said, handing him my small overnight bag.
As we drove through Boston's narrow streets, memories surfaced from our time at Boston University, where all of this with Cam had first begun.
My father had brought me to the old Boston Garden when I was nine – my first road game.
I remember being mesmerized by the history in those walls, the banners hanging from the rafters, the way my dad was treated like royalty even in an opposing team's arena.
Hockey royalty transcended team colors, he'd told me.
The respect was for the game first, the rivalry second.
I wondered if that same respect would extend to a PR director caught in a scandal of her own making. Probably not.
The Four Seasons Boston was elegant and discreet, its lobby mercifully free of hockey fans or media. The concierge directed me to a private elevator that would take me directly to the floor where the team was staying. "Ms. Charmant is expecting you," he said with a polite smile.
Coco was waiting when the elevator doors opened, practically bouncing with excitement. She pulled me into a fierce hug.
"You're here!" she exclaimed. "I was worried you'd chicken out."
"Me too," I admitted, returning her embrace. "Thanks for arranging everything."
"Oh, I can't take credit for that. It's all Trixie. She's gone full mama bear mode over this whole situation." Coco took my bag and led me down the hallway. "The team's at pre-game meetings right now, so the coast is clear. We have about an hour before Trixie wants us all to meet in her suite."
"All?" I asked, a new wave of anxiety washing over me.
Coco grinned. "The WAGs are very excited to meet you. Especially after everything that's happened."
"Great," I muttered. "Nothing like meeting your fake fiancé's teammates' wives and girlfriends in the middle of a PR disaster."
"They're on your side," Coco assured me, swiping her key card and opening the door to a spacious room with two queen beds. "Trust me. Trixie has declared you under WAG protection, and no one messes with Trixie."
I set my bag down and sank onto the edge of the bed. "I don't even know what I'm doing here, Coco. What am I supposed to say to Cam? Sorry I freaked out and ran away after we slept together and then you dropped a trade bomb on me?"
"Maybe start with 'hello' and see where it goes?" Coco suggested, sitting beside me. "Look, I'm not saying it's going to be easy. But you're here. That's a start."
I nodded, twisting the sapphire ring on my finger. "What is Logan saying about the Montreal offer?"
Coco said carefully. "Everybody knows now. It's been... tense."
Before I could ask more, there was a knock at the door. Coco jumped up to answer it, revealing a stunning woman in her early fifties with meticulously highlighted blonde hair and a Slashers-blue manicure that matched her silk blouse.
"There she is!" she exclaimed, sweeping into the room with the confidence of someone used to commanding attention. She headed straight for me, hands outstretched. "Lana, sweetheart. I'm so glad you're here. Sully's just been beside himself over all this mess."
I stood to greet her, momentarily overwhelmed by her perfume and presence. "Trixie, thank you for arranging all this. I really appreciate… "
"It's the least I could do." She grasped my hands in hers, her expression softening. "Sully told me everything. That poor excuse for a journalist who leaked your story should be thrown into the penalty box for life."
Despite everything, I found myself smiling at her indignation. Coach Sully was known for his stoic demeanor; Trixie was his opposite in every way. Kind of like my parents, the original grumpy-sunshine combo.
"Now," Trixie continued, giving my hands a final squeeze before releasing them, "we have a full WAG protection plan in place. You'll stay with us in the private box. No press, no photographers, no nosy fans. Just us girls supporting our men."
The fact that she included me in this collective, that she saw me as one of them despite the circumstances, brought an unexpected lump to my throat.
"Thank you," I managed.