Chapter 22 #2
"Of course, dear. Now come along, the others are waiting in my suite. We need to get you properly outfitted for tonight."
I glanced at Coco, who shrugged with a smile that said, Just go with it.
Trixie's suite was twice the size of ours and filled with women in various stages of game-day preparation.
Some I recognized from team events or games: Shayna, the veteran defenseman's wife; Marcy DeLuca, always the life of the party, and others I'd only seen in passing.
All conversation stopped when we entered.
For a moment, I felt like I was back in high school, the new girl stepping into the cafeteria.
Sure, I knew them all. Just not in this new context.
Then Shayna broke the silence. "There she is! Our PR queen!" She crossed the room to give me a warm hug. "We've been worried about you."
"It's been a rough couple of days," I admitted.
"Girl, we saw," Marcy said, raising a champagne flute. "Those assholes on Twitter or X or whatever they're calling it don't know what they're talking about. We're Team Lana all the way."
The knot in my chest loosened slightly as other women nodded in agreement. They'd seen the worst of the scandal, and they were still welcoming me with open arms.
"Now," Trixie said, clapping her hands to get everyone's attention, "we have a game to prepare for. Let's get Lana dolled up, and we need to go over the security plan."
What followed was a whirlwind of activity.
Shayna produced a brand-new Slashers jersey – Cam's number, of course – that just happened to be in my size.
Marcy, a former Miss Pennsylvania, insisted on doing my makeup ("Just enough to look good on camera if they spot you, honey").
Trixie outlined her elaborate CIA-level plan for getting me into and out of the arena without being noticed by the press.
It was overwhelming, this instant circle of protection and solidarity. These women barely knew me, yet they'd mobilized like an elite tactical unit to ensure my comfort and safety.
"You know," Shayna said as she helped me adjust the jersey, "your mom was the original WAG queen back in her day."
I looked at her in surprise. "She was?"
"Oh, honey, Diana Decker literally wrote the handbook," Trixie chimed in. "Not an actual book, mind you, but we all learned from watching her. The way she balanced family and the spotlight, protected you kids, supported Frank without losing herself. She was legendary."
I blinked, seeing my mother in a new light.
I'd always known she was respected in hockey circles, but I'd never fully appreciated her role in this parallel universe of the sport.
The thought that I might be following in her footsteps – not just as Frank Decker's daughter but as a woman navigating the complex world of hockey relationships – was strangely comforting.
“She is legendary,” I nodded.
As game time approached, the energy in the suite shifted from social to focused. The veterans explained the rituals and superstitions to me:
no one changed seats once the game started
no one said the word "win" until the final buzzer
Shayna always wore her husband's college ring on a chain
Marcy had special game-day earrings.
I watched, fascinated by this parallel world of hockey that existed alongside the one I'd always known. My father had been a player and coach, my brothers were players, but I'd rarely been privy to this side of the sport: the wives and girlfriends who formed their own team off the ice.
"What about you?" Shayna asked, nodding at the sapphire on my finger. "Any superstitions yet?"
I hesitated. "I... I don't really have any. This is all new to me."
"The relationship or the WAG life?" Marcy asked bluntly.
"Both, I guess." It wasn't entirely true. My feelings for Cam were anything but new, but explaining the complexity of our situation wasn't something I was ready to do.
Trixie shot Marcy a warning look, but I appreciated the directness. No need to pretend with these women; they'd seen the headlines.
"You might need a quick refresher on your hockey history, Marcy," said Trixie, "Lana's mom is Diana Decker."
"OMG! I totally forgot!" laughed Marcy. "Too many pre-game cocktails, apparently. You'll be fine, Lana," she said, patting my arm reassuringly. "You learned from the best."
"Okay," Trixie said, checking her watch, "it's time. Cars are waiting downstairs. Remember the plan: we go in through the service entrance, straight to the elevator, directly to the box. No stopping, no talking to press."
The journey to TD Garden was a carefully choreographed operation.
Two black SUVs, drivers who knew exactly where to go to avoid the main entrances, security personnel who guided us through service corridors and freight elevators.
I felt like I was in a spy movie, being smuggled into enemy territory.
If I'd been planning this PR maneuver for a player, I would have been impressed with myself.
The WAGs box was on a premium level, high above the ice but with clear sightlines to the action.
Plush seats, a private bar, and waitstaff ready to bring anything we needed.
Trixie directed the seating arrangements with military precision: me in the center, surrounded by her, Coco, Shayna, and Marcy, forming a sparkly human shield against prying eyes and press.
"Great," she declared once we were all settled. "Now we wait."
From a PR standpoint (which I couldn't seem to turn off, even when I wanted to), it occurred to me that the optics were spectacular.
Even if the cameras did find me, I would be seen surrounded and supported by the player wives in a very exclusive clique – communicating "I'm not hiding, I'm right here front and center," without me actually being vulnerable or accessible to the press. It was kind of genius.
As the arena filled below us, I couldn't help scanning the crowd, looking for familiar faces from the media. Hockey journalists I'd worked with for years were now potential threats. What a difference a few days made.
The teams took the ice for warm-ups, and my heart stuttered when I spotted Cam. Even from this distance, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the mechanical way he went through his routine. He looked... off. Not the fluid, confident player I was used to watching.
"He's been like that since the story broke," Coco murmured beside me. "Logan says he's barely said two words since they arrived in Boston."
I twisted the ring on my finger, a twinge of guilt squeezing my chest. Had I done that to him? The confident, laughing man who'd shared a bed with me just days ago, reduced to this tense, silent shadow?
The first period was painful to watch. The Bruins came out aggressive, testing our goalie Nick Fosse early and often. Cam seemed a step behind every play, missing passes, losing puck battles he'd normally win easily. When Boston scored midway through the period, the home crowd erupted.
"It's okay," Shayna said, noticing my grimace. "First period is always rough in this building."
But the second period wasn't much better.
Logan and Zayne were playing their hearts out, keeping the Slashers in the game with solid defense and a few good chances, but the team couldn't find the equalizer.
Cam's frustration was visible in every line of his body: the way he slammed the bench door during line changes, the force behind his increasingly reckless checks.
"This isn't good," Coco muttered as Cam was called for a slashing penalty. "He's going to get himself thrown out at this rate."
I watched him skate to the penalty box, head down, and felt an ache deep in my chest. This wasn't the Cam I knew – the player who thrived under pressure, who played with joy even in the toughest games. I found myself leaning forward, wishing I could somehow catch his eye, let him know I was here.
The Slashers killed the penalty, but the momentum stayed with Boston. As the second period wound down, Morozov, a Bruins defenseman, checked Cam hard into the boards right below our box. We couldn't hear what was said, but suddenly Cam's head snapped up, and he shoved the player forcefully.
"Oh no," Shayna whispered.
The Bruins player said something else – something that made Cam's face contort with rage. In an instant, gloves were dropped, and Cam was throwing punches with a ferocity I'd never seen from him. The Boston player got in a few shots, but Cam was relentless, driving him back against the boards.
"Jeez. What did he say to him?" I asked, standing to see better.
Marcy, who was squinting through a pair of professional-grade binoculars, said, "Can't read lips from this angle, but..." She trailed off, lowering the binoculars to give me a knowing look. "If I had to guess, given recent headlines, he probably said something about you."
Other players converged, and suddenly it wasn't just Cam and the defenseman – it was a full-on brawl.
Zayne was there in a flash, pulling a Bruins forward off Cam's back.
Logan joined the fray, defending his teammates.
A Bruins helmet skittered across the ice.
Officials struggled to separate the players as the crowd roared its approval.
"What the hell happened?" I asked, still standing for a better view.
"Cam's been on edge since the whole scandal broke," Trixie explained, surprisingly calm as chaos unfolded below. "Sully says he's been taking everything personally. That boy down there is fighting for a lot more than just a hockey puck."
As the officials finally gained control of the situation, assessing penalties and sending players to the box, the Jumbotron began showing faces in the crowd, a standard way to keep fans entertained during delays.
I wasn't paying attention, too focused on trying to see if Cam was okay, until Marcy grabbed my arm.
"Lana," she hissed, "look up."