Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
Mel
I stepped into the house a little after eight-thirty, hair still windswept from the bike ride, helmet line faint across my forehead.
The air inside was cool and settled in once the doors were locked for the night.
A faint mix of fabric softener and lemony polish floated in the air.
The carpet, worn from years of use, muffled my steps as I passed the living room.
I stopped in my tracks. Dad was on the couch, the TV flickering across his face. He’d dozed off with it on. I reached for the remote, but his eyes blinked open.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, sweetie.” He yawned. “Great win in Dallas this weekend. It must’ve been crazy.”
I smiled, but something lodged in my throat. It was the assumption beneath his words, how he hadn’t seen me all weekend, and thought I’d traveled with the team.
The back door opened, and my mom stepped into the kitchen. Her eyes landed on me as I answered, “Yep, it was intense. Tahoe played their hearts out, and it worked. The Cup is next week.”
She crossed the room. “Hey, Mel.”
“Hey, Mom.”
“I’m rooting for your team. You’ll get it,” Dad said.
“I’m rooting for that, too. It’d be a history maker. How about you? I imagine the golf course job is taxing after being out of work for a few years.”
“It is. But I like staying active, so it’s a great fit.”
That was how I’d always seen him. Not built for early retirement.
“I’m happy to hear that, and the bus stop right in front is a bonus. You couldn’t have planned it any better.”
“They might even keep me on after the other guy comes back. He was already stretched thin.”
I chuckled, warmth blooming at this win. What a freaking good day this turned out to be.
“That’s great. Goodnight, Dad.”
“Night, sweetie.”
I headed to my room happy. Things were slowly lining up.
By the next afternoon, that conversation with Dad still lingered when I caught up with Sam during my break. She was slowly settling into Baltimore, juggling hospital onboarding and her new roommate’s dog, who treated phone chargers like breath mints.
“This Wednesday is starred on my calendar,” she said after we’d been chatting for a while. “I met a cute resident today.”
“Ooooh, sizzling chemistry?” I cooed.
“Yes, between his laptop charger and the nearest outlet.” We cracked up.
“In his book, romance is dead. Buried three years under,” I said.
We hung up in a fit of laughter.
Sean’s text came in later. My spark-leading man.
Sean: Skate date tomorrow night? Dress code: warm. Style: cute.
I said yes, of course. These days, we were in full tutor-pupil mode, with him clearly being the tutor. The guy had me enrolled in skating posture, cheerleader-based posing, and motorcycle rides.
I loved it.
Being a student of Sean Murphy’s was my favorite pastime, and his coaching style was chef’s kiss. The week rolled on, full of texts, skating lessons, another bike ride, and we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
Then came Friday.
Work was busy, and by the time I settled in to watch our team’s press conference, it was already underway. Eyes locked on the screen, my heart pounded as if I was the one under the spotlight.
The Golden State Arena media room looked sharper than usual, polished in that spotlight way that made everything feel heightened. Sean sat at the table, flanked by Dane, his assistant, Asher, the captain, and Brent, the right forward.
Sean was the main event of the whole show in a dark suit, perfectly tailored, of course. When the camera cut to a close-up, I caught the crease between his brows, the hard line of his jaw, the exact tilt of his shoulders. Every detail screamed laser focused.
He looked every bit the NHL head coach: powerful, respected.
And he was my very own intimidating, swoon-worthy, boyfriend. Just saying it in my head made my heart do flips.
I couldn’t believe I’d fallen for this man, and even less that he was this gentle with me.
Watching him take questions without blinking, something in me straightened.
His calm traveled, settled my nerves, and made room in my chest. If he could hold a room like that, I could hold my corner.
Some people take your air, but he gave me more, made my spine remember itself. I wanted more of that—from him, in me.
The questions came one after another, mostly about their upcoming Stanley Cup battle against the Eastern Conference champs, whoever emerged from the Florida versus Carolina game. Then the challenges and benefits of the two-week gap, rest, minor injury recovery, and staying mentally sharp.
Then came the question about the viral photo.
My heart gave a little drumroll.
Sean straightened. “Listen, I know we’re gunning for the Cup, but you’re right. Carrying her like that was my real championship moment.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
I felt my face warm. Sean never liked talking about his private life on camera; I’d gathered that much from our pre-fake-date talk. But after we went public in that Bloomberg way, he didn’t have a choice. The price of being the publicly smitten hockey coach.
“So…is she your fiancée?” came the next question.
My heart skipped a beat. Everything on my side stopped, except for my fingers curling around the edge of my desk and the pulse thudding in my ears. What would he say?
Sean looked caught off guard, then recovered smoothly.
“She’s been the best thing to happen to me this season. The photo was meant for fun, but like a lot of good things, it might mean more.”
I stared at the screen, eyes stinging slightly. Did that mean he wanted to marry me someday? Before I could spiral further, another reporter chimed in—
“Coach Murphy, this playoff run is a historic moment, not only for the team, but for your family as well. In the spirit of resilience, how do you think your father’s journey in rehab has shaped the fighter we see leading this team today?”
The press room fell silent.
My gut tightened. Oh no.
Sean’s expression froze. Dane and the two players turned to him, visibly startled more by the question’s audacity than the story behind it.
My mind flashed back to Brent leaning over his seat weeks ago on the plane, tossing out, “You’ve been dodging the booze circuit since forever.
” At the time, I’d laughed. Now I knew, they knew.
Sean took a sharp inhale and composed his look.
“I appreciate the concerned question, but I’m here to talk about the team, the Cup, not my family.” His answer came short, no-nonsense.
The moderator called for the next question, but I didn’t hear it.
With the Stanley Cup only a week away, this was a huge setback on Sean’s morale. He’d told me how his playing years, his dad’s story surfaced, but a mentor helped shut it down. Now, with national attention locked on him, how would he—actually we—keep a pre-Cup interview from spiraling?
I felt sick for him.
He’d been so proud when he told me about his tattoo—Hold the line. It was his promise to stand in for the parent who failed to do so. And now they’d dragged it under the spotlight, years of struggle reduced to a fake-concerned soundbite.
I picked up my phone and texted him.
Me: Hey, I watched the press conference. That rehab question was peak nosy. I’ll swing by after errands.
Sean: Can’t wait to see you.
The rest of the day blurred in logistics, emails, and summaries. I didn’t hear from Sean again. He was probably reaching out to rehab, processing things.
It was Friday, and since I was the only one with a car, the house restock fell to me. After a whirlwind trip to the store, I hauled everything inside—trunk emptied, counters lined with produce, cleaning supplies stacked on the floor.
Dad wasn’t home. Friday nights, he usually stayed late at the golf course, preparing for the Saturday morning crowd.
I had just finished refrigerating the fresh stuff when the front door opened.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, Melanie.”
Melanie. I paused mid-action, instantly alert. That tone, that full-name usage, was rarely a good sign.
“You didn’t travel with the team last weekend,” she said slowly, “and you weren’t here either.”
Heat rose up my neck. Seriously, I must’ve been born with a built-in heat sensor for maternal disapproval. I was pushing thirty, for crying out loud, too grown to be flushed by my mother’s insinuations. And yet.
“You insisted on visiting that man,” she went on, “whose baggage gets messier every day. Alcohol, now?”
That landed like a full-on, open-palm slap.
“You already saw it?” I blurted.
She smirked. “Were you hiding it?”
I stood frozen. Was she following hockey now? Tracking Sean?
“You think you’re special?” she continued, her voice slicing. “That you’ll get a happy ending because he’s rich and smitten? Reality doesn’t care how charming a man is when the fantasy dries up.”
I blinked. “Maybe your dream dried up, Mom. Don’t take it out on me.”
Her eyes flashed, but I didn’t back down.
“Yes, he’s rich, and smitten, and charming…,” I trailed off, heart pounding. My hand rose instinctively to rest on my chest.
Hearing her words out loud struck me. That couldn’t be. My breath caught, no words came. I stared at her for a few stunned seconds, then turned and walked to my room. But for once I wasn’t just fleeing.
This was a different Mel than last year—even different from a few months ago. I couldn’t stay here tonight. I needed space to process everything running through my head. I packed an overnight bag and walked out the door.
Sean’s car was parked out front when I arrived at his house.
I let myself in.
He appeared from the hallway. “Hey.”
“Hey—” My voice cracked, and out of the blue, a tear slid down my cheek, another one followed. Damn it. Lately, my tear ducts loved making a dramatic entrance.
He paused mid-step, confused, but then he crossed the space between us and wrapped his arms around me without a word. I melted against him as my tear ducts popped champagne corks, one after another.
“What is it? What happened?” His voice rumbled through me.
He stroked my back, his other hand smoothing my hair. I probably sounded like the world’s messiest faucet, but it freaking hurt. By the time I calmed down, his shirt was damp. Again. A soaked déjà vu of the bar celebration night.
I wasn’t a weepy woman, not usually. I cried when Vince dumped me, but lately, it didn’t take much to crack me open. The dam holding back my tears kept bursting without warning, spilling onto Sean’s shirts and his dry-cleaning bills.
He tilted his head, searching my face, but I couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Come sit,” he said. “I’ll get you a drink.”
I sank into the couch while he moved to the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned with two glasses, each crowned with a straw.
“Sangria,” he said simply, setting one down in front of me.
“Thanks.” I glanced toward the hallway. “Cassy?”
“Abby took her camping with a group of other moms and kids.”
Relief swept through me. The last thing I needed was to fall apart in front of them.
I took a sip. Fruity, sweet, lightly fizzy. I scooped a pineapple slice with my straw and chewed slowly, letting the sugar distract me. My brain was a tangled ribbon of self-pity and guilt.
“I feel selfish, dumping my mess on you when you have your own,” I finally said.
“I don’t mind,” he replied. “If you’re upset, I want to know. Always.”
That stopped me mid-swirling the drink with the straw. I looked at him then. His belief in me was like a mental massage, smoothing the nerves and the shame. Or maybe it was the pineapple... nope, definitely him.
But his posture didn’t match the tenderness of his voice. His hand had brushed my hair earlier soothing, but his arm stayed locked, his shoulders tight.
“Did you find anything about your dad? Is he okay?” I asked gently.
He swallowed a sip. “He’s fine. He told them proudly how his offspring did something right even if he failed.”
My eyes went wide. “I thought it would require some digging and twists, but he…? I’m sorry, Sean.”
He shrugged. “I have to learn to live with the fact that some screwed selfishness never changes.”
I wanted to believe the shrug, but this was an emotional whiplash days before the biggest game of his career. Sean was tucking the pain somewhere deep and showing up for me while his own world was fraying at the edges.
My chest tightened. I tapped into the muscle memory I’d used with my mom for years. But this time, it wasn’t avoidance, I was giving him space. I’d ask more tomorrow.
He shifted, then asked again, “So, what had happened?”
I cleared my throat. “It’s my Mom. She sees my life—independent, in love, self-respected—and it burns her.”
Sean frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“I’m rewriting her dream script, out loud, with you.” I paused. “Watching me jet around for work, happy, fulfilled, is killing her. All she sees is the life she didn’t get. That window closed, but I reopened it just by existing.”
Her words echoed: You think you’re special?
I blinked them away.
“So it’s not ‘don’t get hurt’, it’s ‘how dare you succeed where I failed?’” Sean asked slowly.
I nodded, throat too tight to answer.
“She wants you to have a miserable life too. Or at least one she can label as miserable.”
His brows froze mid-section.
Yes, Sean. Your handbook on “Girlfriend Meltdowns” just got two new chapters: The Problematic Girlfriend and Passive-Aggressive Sabotage Mother.
“But to be jealous of me. Me. My own mother…” My voice cracked.
Sean reached for my hand and squeezed.
“Parents are supposed to be proud, go the extra mile for their kid. Now that picture with your ex, it feels like her doing...”
“Cutie.” He pulled me against his chest and held me there. “I know that kind of hurt. It’s brutal. Maybe let’s not try to solve the unknowns tonight.”
I listened to his heartbeat, steady and calming. He wasn’t only talking about my mom, he meant his dad too. He was hurting, but he made space for me, stayed open for me. The strength he carried from his own scars made the choice feel simple. I chose him without hesitation.