Chapter 27
JADE
The scent of expensive oil paint displaces the biting stench of the city as soon as the glass door of the Rice Fine Arts Gallery clicks shut behind me.
The noise of Sainte-Catherine Street cuts off instantly.
Large-format canvases hang on the white-washed walls, showing abstract landscapes in vibrant colors.
My heels click across the polished parquet as I maneuver between carefully placed sculptures.
My pulse thumps uncomfortably against my carotid artery; I have no idea what awaits me behind the next door.
At the back of the showroom, a curtain slides aside, and a woman steps into the soft light of the ceiling spots.
Evelyn Rice possesses that understated elegance that money alone can't buy.
Her copper-red hair is tied in a loose knot at her neck; fine lines frame the corners of her eyes, telling of a life that didn't always go to plan.
She wears a soft cardigan over a flowing silk dress.
Noticing me, she stops and studies me with a mix of curiosity and palpable caution.
"Miss Sterling?" she asks, her voice possessing a surprisingly melodic ring.
"Ms. Rice," I reply, stepping closer and extending my hand. "Thank you for taking the time. I truly appreciate it."
She hesitates for a heartbeat before taking my fingers. Her grip is unexpectedly firm. "Better come into my office. It’s too restless out here for this kind of conversation, and I’m expecting a delivery of new frames shortly."
I follow her through a narrow hallway into an adjacent room that clearly serves as both office and studio.
A massive oak desk dominates the center, while countless sketchbooks and palettes are stacked in the corners.
Evelyn points to a padded guest chair. I sit, pull my notepad from my bag, and get my pen ready.
"You said on the phone you wanted to talk about Banff," she begins without preamble. She fills two glasses with tap water from a carafe and slides one across the desk to me.
"I’m writing a detailed profile on Cayden Miller for the Chronicle," I explain, choosing my words with extreme care.
"He’s at a massive turning point in his career.
The stadium project brings him back into the spotlight, but at the same time, the media is digging up the past. I want to write the facts.
I don't want to reproduce PR myths created by the association over a decade ago. "
Evelyn sinks slowly into her office chair.
She folds her hands on the wooden surface and stares at her manicured nails for quite a while, as if searching for the right phrasing.
"The press literally tore him apart back then, Miss Sterling.
The association sacrificed him without blinking. And I watched in silence."
She exhales audibly. The last bit of professional distance crumbles, revealing a woman carrying immense guilt. Eleven years is an eternity when you have to silence your own conscience daily.
"Tell me about the time before the scandal," I gently urge, opening the first blank page of my pad. Some of my own sketches, made in recent days to calm my nerves, fall out.
"Are these yours?" Evelyn asks.
"They... yes, no, I mean... it’s a hobby. More like therapy for my nerves when everything gets too much."
She nods as if she knows exactly what I’m talking about. "You have talent."
I nod gratefully but don't know what else to say, so I change the subject. "How did you even meet Cayden?"
"I was employed as a physiotherapist for the national team back then," she says, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.
"I massaged tight muscles and taped sprained joints.
But primarily, I was the head coach's wife.
That was my unofficial main title. The players always just saw the silent appendage of Coach Davis. "
I nod understandingly, click my pen, and note today's date on the paper.
"My ex-husband lived exclusively for the sport," she continues, her gaze wandering to an oil painting on the opposite wall.
"Tactics were his religion; victories were his oxygen.
He spent half the night over his playbooks.
The other half he spent in foreign hotel rooms. He had countless affairs during our marriage and genuinely thought I didn't know. He thought I was delightfully naive."
A sharp sting hits my gut. The man who ruined Cayden for a moral lapse was himself a notorious cheater.
"Cayden was new to the training camp that year," Evelyn says, her voice gaining noticeable warmth.
"He was the rising young star. He brought this incredible hype with him.
The older players practically cowered before my husband; Cayden didn't. He had respect for the athletic achievement, but he wasn't afraid of authority. "
She absentmindedly strokes the gray cardboard of a sketchbook.
"We met at the mandatory team dinners. My husband sat at the head of the long table, loudly lecturing about play patterns. I usually sat silently beside him, staring at my plate. Cayden often sat directly opposite me, and he’d frequently make jokes when my husband looked away.
He had this disarming charm that immediately fills a room.
He saw me, Jade. He perceived me as a human being and not as the coach’s property. "
I listen intently. The one-sided image of the arrogant playboy that had lodged in my head is showing massive cracks.
The media portrayed Cayden as a ruthless seducer who takes what he wants.
Evelyn describes a young man instead who gave a lonely woman at a crowded table the attention she otherwise didn't get.
"He often came to the treatment room after practice," she reports, taking a small sip of her water.
"He had a stubborn shoulder injury. Nothing wild, but it needed treatment.
We talked during the sessions. He asked about my real interests.
I told him about art, my deep passion for painting.
My husband didn't ask about my paintings once in all our years together.
Cayden wanted to see photos of them on my phone.
He praised my technique. He made me feel alive again in those brief moments. "
I swallow hard—the parallels hit me in the face. Cayden has that rare ability to make people feel like they’re the center of the universe in that specific moment. He did it in the VIP box with Parker. And he did it in the past with Evelyn.
"And then came that night in Banff," I steer the conversation carefully to the actual turning point.
Evelyn closes her eyes, resting her forehead on her fingertips.
The memory clearly causes her physical pain.
"We were in the team hotel. My husband had completely humiliated me at dinner in front of the entire team for no reason.
He made a disparaging comment about my weight because he didn't like a play and needed an outlet. I got up and went to my room. I cried for hours. Sometime in the night, I walked down the hall and knocked on Cayden’s door. "
She lifts her head and looks me straight in the eyes.
"It wasn't about sex at first, Miss Sterling.
I just needed someone to comfort me. I desperately needed validation that I wasn't a worthless piece of trash.
Cayden let me in. He was fuming at my husband for the stunt at dinner.
He mixed me drinks from the minibar and we talked for a long time.
The alcohol did the rest, and one thing led to another. "
I hold my pen still, vividly imagining the scene. This woman's sheer despair. Cayden’s impulsive protective instinct mixing with his dislike for the coach.
"My husband woke up at some point," Evelyn whispers, her hands starting to tremble slightly. "He didn't find me in bed, but he knew the night porter from before. He got the master keys for the players' floor and stormed into Cayden’s room without warning."
A cold shiver chases down my back. That’s the moment the bomb went off.
"He screamed like a madman," she says tonelessly. "He called me a slut and spat in my face. He threatened Cayden, told him he’d throw him off the national team on the spot. He’d use his contacts and ensure this cocky kid never set foot on Canadian ice again."
"How did Cayden react?" I ask, leaning slightly across the desk.
"He immediately stood protectively in front of me," Evelyn replies.
A single tear escapes the corner of her eye, which she quickly wipes away with the back of her hand.
"He stood there in his boxers, and he didn't raise his voice once.
He looked my husband right in the eye and said: Leave her out of it.
Punish me. But leave her dignity alone."
I press my lips tight. Cayden protected her. He completely sacrificed himself to save her from public humiliation. He knew exactly what was at stake. And he did it anyway.
"The association stepped in the next morning," Evelyn explains.
"They desperately needed a plausible excuse for the sudden dismissal of their star player.
They couldn't possibly let the head coach look like a cuckolded husband.
That would have completely undermined his authority with the team.
So they invented that excessive party night downtown.
Cayden was suspended. The press pounced on him like a pack of hungry wolves.
He endured it all in silence. He never said a single word about me to the media in all those years. "
"Why did you stay silent?" the question slips out.
Evelyn lowers her gaze in shame. "I was incredibly cowardly.
I was terrified of my husband, of the public hounding.
I wanted to protect my two sons, who were small back then.
I desperately told myself Cayden would somehow get through it.
He was extremely talented. I genuinely thought his athletic reputation would recover after a few months. "
She laughs joylessly. "The marriage didn't last another year anyway.
Our divorce was a total mud-slinging match.
My husband eventually paid a large settlement to shut me up for good.
I took the money and opened this gallery here in Montreal.
Art was my only lifeline. I haven't seen Cayden since that night in Banff.
I never thanked him for what he did for me. "
I slowly set my pen down. The truth is open on the table now, and it looks completely different from the sensationalist reports in the archives. Cayden wasn't a perpetrator. He was the convenient scapegoat for a toxic, misogynistic system in professional sports.
"Do you still have contact with your ex-husband today?" I change the subject, desperately needing a moment to sort my own emotions.
Evelyn shakes her head. "We barely speak. And when we do, it’s strictly about our sons. They’re teenagers now, and they need a father figure, even if he’s an extremely difficult person."
"We just had a fight on the phone again. He’s always changing his plans at the boys' expense."
I grab my pen again automatically. "What happened?"
"He was supposed to have his fixed visitation that weekend," she explains, visibly annoyed. "The boys had been looking forward to it for weeks. They wanted to attend an important hockey game together. But he called on the Thursday night before and canceled everything."
"That must have been disappointing for your sons," I agree softly.
"His own career is still the most important thing to him," Evelyn snorts contemptuously. She taps a manicured forefinger on the wooden tabletop. "He told me on the phone he had an urgent meeting; an unpostponable business dinner in Montreal. The man was supposedly extremely influential."
"Did he happen to mention the man's name?"
Evelyn frowns, trying to remember. "He was bragging horribly on the phone. He loves dropping big names to impress me. It was a well-known investor. Someone with an enormous amount of capital."
She snaps her fingers. "Hades. No. That wasn't it. Hayes. Elias Hayes. That was the name."