Chapter 39
LIAM
It was all high fives and fist bumps on the way into the locker room, and now we were happily chirping as we stripped off our gear.
Of course, the reporters were waiting for us.
I was looking forward to showering off the funk of the game, but answering questions first was part of the job.
And at least Jack Arlen was busy annoying one of my other teammates, so I didn’t mind too much.
One of the local reporters asked me a few questions about the game. It was the usual stuff—our forecheck was on point, we needed to do a little more special teams work, and Barns definitely earned a star tonight. All upbeat and fun, just like after any win.
Our team reporter had some similar questions for me. Then Marcus turned to Chris in the next stall. “Hi, Kanes—question for both you and Saints.”
I looked up. Something prickled the length of my spine, but it was probably just habitual paranoia.
Marcus glanced between Chris and me. “How has the relationship between Saints and your dad affected your locker room dynamic?”
My heart stopped.
Chris’s lips parted and his helmet almost tumbled out of his hands. “Relationship?” He cut his eyes toward me, then back to Marcus. “What relationship? What are you talking about?”
Marcus straightened as the color drained from his face. “Oh, but the video—I thought you knew if—”
“Knew about what?” Chris whirled on me. “What the hell is he talking about?”
I put up my hands. “Chris, listen, we—”
“Are you fucking serious?” he roared, loud enough that every hot mic in the building probably caught it.
Panic had my heart beating so fast, I thought it might literally explode. To Marcus, I said, “What are you even talking about?”
The reporter had gone white as a sheet. “The video? Of you talking to the fans? I—Saints, it was posted to—”
“What video?” I demanded. “What are you talking about?”
Marcus was already frantically trying to pull up something on his phone.
Chris wasn’t interested, though. “My dad? Seriously? You’re fucking my—”
“We’ve been dating,” I said quickly, patting the air between us. “We were going to tell you, but we wanted to—”
“Jesus Christ. What the fuck, Saints?” Chris threw his helmet into his stall so hard, he might’ve cracked the visor. “First you fuck me out of my rookie season, then you’re fucking my dad?”
“Your rookie—what? What are—”
“Don’t play stupid, asshole,” he snarled.
“I know you’re the one who convinced the club to keep me in the goddamned minors instead of letting me play.
” He huffed a sarcastic laugh. “Didn’t want to be upstaged by a kid, did you?
And now that I’m here, you’re with my fucking—ugh. What is wrong with you?”
He didn’t give me a chance to answer before he stalked out of the locker room.
I couldn’t move. I wanted to grill Marcus about what the fuck he was talking about, and I wanted to follow Chris and try to talk him down about this and about his rookie season, and I… I just didn’t know what to do.
Right then, Marcus held up his phone in an unsteady hand. “Here. Here’s the article with the video.”
It took me a second to register what he meant. My mind was just going too fast in too many directions to make sense of anything.
When I caught up, I took the phone and peered at the screen. A headline screamed, “Pittsburgh Phantoms Captain Confirms GAY LOVE AFFAIR with Rookie Linemate’s FATHER!”
My blood turned even colder. “What the fuck…” I scrolled down, and… there it was, embedded about halfway down the article between a couple of obnoxious ads. With my heart in my throat, I pressed play.
It was a scary good fake. If I’d been struck with amnesia and saw this video, I could absolutely believe that really was me.
But I didn’t have amnesia, and I knew for a fact that what I was seeing had never happened.
It showed me outside the arena, signing autographs from my car.
“Hey, Saints,” a young voice asked from off-camera. “Is it true you’re dating Chris Kane’s dad?”
I looked up from signing a puck and smiled at the speaker. “Yep, it’s true!”
My knees shook. What the fuck? I could barely speak as I looked at Marcus. “This is…” I shook my head. “This is fake.”
His eyes went wider than before. “It is?”
“Yeah, I’ve…” I waved the hand holding his phone, nearly hurling it across the dead silent locker room. “This never fucking happened. I never told anyone, never mind fans!”
The whole room went silent.
Every pair of eyes was focused on me.
In the hallway outside, something crashed, and someone shouted. Chris. It had to be Chris.
And my heart hit the floor.
It didn’t matter if any of it was fake. It didn’t matter if the article was complete bullshit with an AI-generated video.
“My dad? Seriously? You’re fucking my—”
“We’ve been dating. We were going to tell you, but we wanted to—”
Fucking hell. The fake didn’t matter. Where it came from didn’t matter. Marcus had accidentally tipped my hand, and before I’d realized it was fake, I’d thrown all my cards out on the table.
“I’m so sorry, Liam,” Marcus whispered, his uncharacteristically timid voice cracking through the silence like a puck slamming into the dashers. “I thought… I thought…”
“It’s not your fault,” I said numbly. I could believe that much—Marcus was a decent human being who understood and respected boundaries. He’d had every reason to believe that article was real and that he wasn’t asking me about something that wasn’t already wildly public.
But the cat was out of the bag.
And I had to do damage control fast.
So, skates still on, I hurried out of the locker room after Chris.