24. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
24
The idle of the engine fills the silence as we sit in the back of the car we’re in, parked just outside the stadium where the Montreal Blizzard is about to play. I glance at Rory, who has been a statue since we pulled up, staring through the tinted windows at the arena like it's some fortress we're about to storm.
A bye week could've been spent on a beach or holed up in some cozy cabin, preferably naked, but here we are in Pittsburgh with my attempt to break the ice between her and her father.
“Why are we here?”
Her question is already suspicious, and the death grip on my hand already suggests that she knows where her father’s team will be tonight. I should’ve told her sooner, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get her in the car.
“Baby—”
“I can’t see him,” she cuts in, glaring at the building like it’s the one that doesn’t approve of our relationship. “This isn’t the place, Wells.”
It may not be.
However, I’m unsure of how to navigate this. It wasn’t every week that I met the parents of the girls I would pick up in random cities. This actually means something.
I lean in, close enough that she hears me over the driver clearing his throat up front like he's got a time clock in his head. "We're a team, remember? I'm with you, whatever happens in there.”
She finally turns her head, peering at the stadium again, then back at me. “Maybe I should do this alone.”
“Yeah, no,” I retort with a smirk. “You think I’ll let you into the lion's den alone? Furthermore, every hockey fan with a dick wants you now that you’re mine. I don’t share.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she drones with zero emotion. “This isn’t going to work.”
“Let me charm your father, and all will be well.”
“He doesn’t swing that way.”
I roll my eyes.
“Baby, just wait...he will love me.”
Rory sighs. “Fine, but it’s on my terms, alright?” There it is—a spark of relenting in her eyes, a softening around the edges. “We watch the game first, see how it goes.”
“Yeah, absolutely.” I feel like I’m negotiating a powerplay with more at stake than any game could hold. “We’re in this together.” I squeeze her hand as if I could transfer my conviction through our fingers laced together.
Rory exits the car, and I follow, the chill of the night wrapping around us.
“I’ve got your back,” I promise as I pull her in my arms. Tonight, it's not about hockey. It's about Rory and her dad, about mending fences.
“Yeah, I know.”
“And I’ll buy you all the snacks you want.”
She paces as I begin guiding us toward a secret entrance found by a few of my bodyguards. The last thing I need is for us to get stampeded when I’m trying to accomplish something here.
And this needs to go off without a hitch.
—
The final horn is still ringing in my ears, fans buzzin' around us, but Rory and me? We might as well have been in a different world.
The game? Yeah, Montreal pulled through, but we didn’t watch much. It's like we're the night's feature presentation, with every lens, phone, and pair of eyes fixated on us. The Jumbotron can't seem to get enough, flashing our faces for all to see, the crowd reacting excitedly every time.
And the announcer, well, that asshole made sure no one missed the memo that Rory Sellers and yours truly were gracing the arena with our presence.
As the seconds tick down, a new drama unfolds inside our suite. Security rolls in, all but laying down a red carpet for us to enter Rory's dad's office.
Talk about timing and a holier-than-thou move.
Rory seemed to see right through it as well, shaking her head to the linebacker in a suit with a fortress of ‘nope’ built around her and for a hot minute, I'm stumped.
We can’t keep dancing around this.
I have no problem meeting Coach Sellers and putting this to bed, but Rory really isn’t down for making amends.
She’s still pissed.
"Rory," I say, my voice a low undercurrent beneath the post-game chaos. “You don't have to say a word if you don't want to. Just...be there. Let's clear the air. For you. For us."
She's a hurricane of mixed emotions, I know. Her eyes flicker with irritation, but she knows it too.
It's game time.
Looping her arm with mine, we make the long walk toward old grudges and new beginnings.
Every step feels like a lifetime, but I keep the vibe light because if I don't, I might crack and give in to Rory, who is unhappy about this.
"Hey," I whisper, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "After this, we've still got each other. I’m not worried about what he says about me. Don’t get caught up in that.”
“I will.”
“Baby steps, Snowflake. We might not get this handled today.”
She bites down on her lower lip and blows out a heavy exhale. “I don’t know how often you expect me to do this.”
“Just this one time.”
Finally, she nods, and I’m proud as hell of her.
Within another minute, we arrive at Coach Sellers’s office, and I knock before opening the door, my heart pounding and my mind racing. The tension is immediately thicker, and he's already here, lurking behind his desk and waiting to scold us probably.
I catch his eye, and man, if looks could kill, I’d be flat on the floor. The chill from that gaze could freeze the whole rink over—no love lost there, but I can’t blame the man. My team practically sweeps his every time we come across each other.
I wouldn’t care for me either if I were him.
Regardless, it’s time to drop the bullshit, and I take the lead, crossing the room while Rory hesitates at the threshold. I’m not blind to the fact that this is the last place she wants to be, caught between the man she loves and the man she's never wanted to disappoint.
But I’m determined to make this work.
Coach Sellers's expression doesn’t change as I approach, but I’m not here to become his best friend. I offer my hand because that’s what you do—show respect, even when the respect might not be mutual, and force him to acknowledge me.
“Coach,” I greet flatly. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
To his credit—and my slight surprise—he takes it, his handshake firm, solid like his reputation. A nice little scowl accompanies it, all for me.
His hand pulls back, and his eyes dart past me to where Rory stands, still on the fringe of this tension-filled huddle.
The ice hasn’t broken yet, but the play’s in motion.
And I am used to winning on it.
“You both thought it would be a good idea to show up tonight?”
No, hi, or how are you, Rory? The guy jumps right into it.
“Why wouldn’t we?” I challenge back. “Rory comes to some of your away games.”
Coach Sellers flicks his scowl back to me. “Not with you.”
“This was to be expected, I would think. Rory grew up around hockey. Dating a hockey player—”
“I don’t need your opinion on what you think regarding my daughter,” he grounds out through a tense jaw. “I thought it was common sense that anyone affiliated with the New Brunswick Wolverines wouldn’t bode well.”
“For your career,” I fill in for him, catching on to his vague-ass commentary.
Coach Sellers averts his eyes back to his daughter. “You knew what this would cost me, and you went ahead with it anyway.”
Coach Sellers's words hang heavy in the air, their weight palpable as they settle around us in the sparse office. The accusation in them that Rory would be so callous is a low blow.
Rory steps forward, her body stiffening as she braves her father. “This wasn't about you," she states, conviction bolstering her voice. "It was never about making things difficult for you or the team. I’ve told you that. Several times.”
He doesn't look comforted; his gaze is still fixed on some point of distress, maybe a headline, perhaps a scathing email from the higher-ups. Imagined or real, it doesn't matter. Something is going on here.
"Upper management is giving me shit because of these rumors. About your relationship painting us as cheaters. Like I sent my daughter to spy on our rivals.”
"That's crap,” Rory fires back. "I've never been anything but loyal to this team, your team. You know that."
“No one else cares. Especially since you wore his jersey only a week ago.”
Rory shifts her weight, and I bide my time before I call this conversation over. “I’m capable of more. Don’t underestimate me.”
“I’d never do that,” her father returns calmly. “But this doesn’t look good. I can handle a team, but not my daughter.”
“I have nothing to do with your job.”
“You do when dating Judson Wells, a renowned playboy, when he’s much more than just another hockey player when he is hated by most of our fans! I’m being side-eyed like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing!” His voice gets louder with each statement. The calmness turns into rage.
"Look," I interject, as much for Rory as for her father. "We care about how this affects the team and your position. We get it. But this... our relationship, it's real. It's not some covert operation, and it's not going to change."
“I’m speaking to my daughter,” he leers. “You can see yourself out.”
“Aw, now, Coach, you just said you knew how to handle hockey players. I think if your upper management is giving you shit for a relationship, you need to look elsewhere. They’re not giving you the respect you deserve.”
His brows raise to the ceiling. “Oh really? And you got all that from being here for two minutes?”
“You just painted the perfect picture for me, sir. You know your daughter, and you know she’s not evil. I know you don’t want to deal with the extra shit right now, but this isn’t going away.”
Coach Sellers's glare hardens, the lines of battle drawn more firmly with every word we exchange. "This isn't a game. My job, my livelihood, is on the line here. You may not care about public opinion since you’re always in it, but it affects the team, the fans, and the higher-ups. If you care about Rory, you'll end this."
I shake my head, feeling Rory's gaze burning into the side of my face, her silent strength backing me up. "Ending this isn't an option. I’m not letting her go. We’ll refute the rumors publicly and make a statement. There's got to be a way to handle this that doesn’t involve breaking us apart."
"You think a statement will fix this? You think it's that simple?" The incredulity in his voice is almost a physical force. "You haven't been in this business long enough to understand how these things work!"
“I’ve been in those headlines more times than you can count.” He opens his mouth, but I continue. “And, with all due respect again, sir, you should leave. If there’s no trust in your skillset... the Coach Sellers I've heard so much about wouldn’t take that bullshit.”
He leans forward, hands pressed flat on the desk. "You don't get to question my methods or dedication to my team. And you don't get to lecture me on solutions when you are the problem."
Rory steps in then, a calm but assertive presence when she speaks. "Dad, Wells isn't the problem. It’s the fact that Montreal wants to win so badly. He’s right; they don’t respect you. You’ve been doing this a long time, and you deserve some—”
“What do you want me to do, Rory? Quit? You want me to become a coach who just ups and leaves?” He points to the door. “Those boys rely on me. They need me.”
“They might,” she agrees. “But what do you need? Surely, it’s not being harassed every day about your grown-ass daughter and the decisions she makes.”
“Then what?” he challenges back. “Interviews with other teams? You want someone to take me seriously when I up and desert my own team. The one I’ve built for years.”
“Yes.”
He looks between us, the fight visibly draining from him as he slumps back in his chair. "Rory, you know what's at stake."
"And that's exactly why you can't ask this of me. Of us. You've taught me to stand firm in adversity, not to cower and break under pressure. You’re better than this.”
Silence descends throughout the room, and if I were a betting man, I’d say Coach was allowing her words to sink in.
However, he’s prideful. It’ll take a few days for it to sink in. And I think Rory has said her piece.
“After the season, I’d like to take you out to dinner, Coach,” I slice through the room, earning his attention again. “Get to know me a little more and grill me with your questions.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” he mutters. “I have better things to do.”
“Dad,” Rory chides, propping a hand on her hip. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he replies. “We’ll talk more about this later.”
Rory rocks her head back and forth again. “No. This is not my problem anymore. You can either come to terms with it or not. There’s nothing else to speak about. I’ve made up my mind. It’s time to make up yours.”
The finality in Rory's voice leaves no room for argument, even from a man as stubborn as her father.
Coach Sellers’s jaw works silently, the gears of stubbornness and paternal concern grinding against the reality of his daughter's resolve. It's clear that conceding isn't in his playbook, but neither is losing his relationship with Rory.
His eyes flicker to me, then back to his daughter, and there’s an unspoken conversation in that brief locking of gazes. I stand firm, supporting without overshadowing, because this isn't my request to deliver—it's Rory's.
"Fine," he finally grunts, the word sounding like it's being dragged out of him. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”
“Fine,” Rory returns, lifting her chin. “Then I’ll talk to you later, Dad.”
Then she pivots toward the door and leaves me with her old man.
It's not where I want to be, but here we are.
"We're not your enemies, sir,” I state. “Maybe on the ice, but not off it. I love your daughter. I will take care of her and make her the happiest woman alive. My past doesn’t live here anymore. I hope, in time, you'll come to see that."
My parting words aren’t an olive branch, but they’re not a challenge either; they’re a simple statement of fact.
It's his loss if he doesn’t want to accept that.
But my ass isn’t going anywhere.