Chapter 28 Mel
Chapter twenty-eight
Mel
I walked back into the party room, pulse skipping. I could barely keep the grin off my face—the video shoot was spinning in my head. The videographer was moving on to other people, and the entire shoot would drop in the media tomorrow morning. Sean had no clue.
I caught his profile mid-conversation with Paxton and bit back another grin. If he looked my way now, I’d probably burst. I turned away, fluffed my blouse, and tried to act normal as I mingled through the crowd.
The camaraderie was infectious. It was only my second time in the WAG crowd, the first had been a photo op.
Totally different from swapping rink-side jokes with the players.
Here, as Sean’s girlfriend, I was still finding my balance.
But less nervous than I’d expected. Somehow, I’d found my footing on emotional ice skates.
Who knew WAG life was less Mean Girls and more Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants: Hockey Edition?
Conversations swelled around the room. Everyone was in on the surprise, but no one slipped.
“You good?” Sean’s voice came from behind me.
I turned. “Yeah, and you?”
“I wouldn’t mind heading out.”
“Sure thing. Let me grab my purse.”
While the buzz continued, Sean took my hand, and we slipped out together. He drove us back to his house.
I stayed. Who wouldn’t, when you had the best gentleman at your fingertips?
When I woke, the morning light peeked through the curtains.
My cheek rested against Sean’s chest, the scent of lemon and linen wrapping around us.
His arm was draped over me, fingers curled as if he hadn’t let go all night.
If anyone had told me a man this patient existed, I wouldn’t have believed them.
The excitement from last night still hummed under my skin. I couldn’t wait to see his face when he opened his phone and saw what Tahoe West Media had lined up. But more than that, his words from yesterday morning echoed in my head. Falling harder for you again and again.
I closed my eyes and savored the warmth beneath me. I didn’t want to be the version of me that tiptoed around approval anymore. I wanted to meet him, strength for strength.
When I peeked up, his eyes were already open, watching me.
I smiled. “Hi.”
He hummed in response.
“Can I ask you something?” I murmured, voice still sleep-soft.
Another hum.
“You said once that someone helped you when you were a rookie. That they didn’t let your dad’s mess define you. How did you do that—how did you not let it take your thunder?”
Sean’s chest rose beneath my cheek, then fell slowly. He was thoughtful, as if reaching back through time to find the right thread.
“I didn’t,” he said finally. “Not at first.”
I lifted my head slightly to see his face.
His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. “My dad didn’t threaten or punish. He used charm and guilt, as if I owed him for every good moment. And when things fell apart, I thought it was because I wasn’t enough to hold it all together.”
My fingers curled against his chest, feeling the slow thud beneath.
“I was sharp on the ice, clueless off it. I didn’t know how to separate his chaos from my own identity. I kept making myself small to make him comfortable, until one of my coaches stepped in.”
“The mentor?”
He nodded. “He saw the signs, pulled me aside, and gave me space to talk. But more than that—he showed me a different way to carry the weight. He didn’t try to fix my dad, he helped me stop trying to fix him too.”
I swallowed, the lump in my throat sudden and full.
“He told me I wasn’t my father’s shadow, that I was my own damn light.
I didn’t believe him at first. But every time I showed up, every time I followed his lead, it chipped away at the shame and the guilt.
Eventually, I stopped flinching when people said his name or when I had to drag him from a bar. ”
I pressed my forehead to his collarbone, letting the words settle.
“That’s what you did for me,” I whispered. “Reminding me to live, not just survive.”
His hand slid up my back, slow and steady. “I didn’t do anything you weren’t ready for. You already had that fight in you. You only didn’t realize you were allowed to take up space. You needed someone to blow the whistle and say, ‘you’re your own person’.”
I blinked hard. “I can’t believe it took me twenty-eight years to finally pull free from my mom’s hold.” I shook my head, still amazed. “It was as if fog had settled over my head, and now it’s finally cleared. I stayed compliant, thinking confidence meant I was crossing the line.”
“You were conditioned without knowing,” he said. “They twist the rules. Different methods, same result—taking up your space so they appeared bigger.”
I nodded against him.
“You’re not only beside me, Mel. You’re with me.” He lowered his voice. “It goes beyond closeness. You’re mine.”
I tightened my arms around him. “This helps me understand the inside stuff… but how did you make your dad see it? I don’t want to cut my mom out of my life—if I can help it.”
“That makes sense.” He paused, thoughtful. “More than anything, it’s about figuring out what you can live with.”
He glanced down at me. “The mentor convinced my dad to keep his drinking out of the public eye, and pointed out how my career was at risk.”
He moistened his lips. “If you decide to talk with her, you’ll probably need someone who shares history with both you and Ruby. Someone who understands the layers.”
“She’d dismiss Sam in a heartbeat. Dad, on the other hand, used to be steady, grounded—the kind of father anyone would wish for. Then the financial fallout hit, and it wrecked him, turned him into the shadow of who he was.”
Sean brushed a thumb across my shoulder. “Maybe it’s time he stepped back into the light again. For you. For her. For himself.”
He gave me a peck and disappeared into the shower to get ready for morning practice. The Cup was six days away.
I lingered in bed a little longer, then finally got up to get dressed.
Sean came out of the bathroom, towel slung around his hip, hair damp, and stopped at the doorway watching me pull on my jeans.
“You know,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind waking up like this every day.”
I looked up, heart thudding.
“You mean…?”
“I mean, if you ever wanted to make this more permanent—your stuff here, your mornings here—I’d be all in.”
I smiled, heart thudding. “I’ll think about it.”
“No pressure,” he said, crossing the room to kiss my forehead. “Only… don’t be surprised if I keep making the case.”
I quickly buttoned my jeans and headed out before all that athletic perfection gave me an eyesore. And because my brain was knotted over the proposal to move in, I needed air to untangle it.
It was a beautiful Sunday. The kind that makes you want to live fully, not just from here forward, but rewind a few years and start fresh—
“Mel?” Sean’s voice called from inside.
My heart skipped. He saw the videos.
I walked back in to find Sean coming down the hall in his boxer shorts, phone in hand, disbelief written all over his face.
“What the hell… Did you know about this?”
I walked over, pretending not to grin. “Know about what?”
He angled the phone toward me. Tahoe West Media’s post was front and center: Tribute to Coach Murphy: The Man Behind the Cup Run. The video played clips of players, WAGs, staff—all speaking about Sean, his leadership, his loyalty, his heart.
Brent: “He’s the kind of coach who shows up even when it’s hard.”
Asher: “He’s the guy who never lets the past define the future. That’s why we’re here.”
Sadie: “Mel, you’ve got a good one. He’s the kind of man who lifts everyone around him.”
Sean sat down slowly on the edge of the couch. I perched near him.
“They did this?” It was more awe than question.
I nodded. “You deserve to see what we see in you.”
He didn’t speak, just continued watching, eyes glassy, jaw tight. Then he straightened. He’d reached my video.
“Sean leads with heart. He shows up for everyone, rain or shine. I’ve seen him carry more than most and still make space for joy. That’s the kind of man he is.”
He turned slowly toward me. “You were in on it.”
I burst out laughing, finally releasing the bubble I’d held since last night. He reached for my hand, pulled me into his lap, and fell backward onto the couch, taking me with him.
“You are trouble.” He hugged me tightly. “My favorite kind.”
Then he went quiet.
“I didn’t know they saw me like that,” he said finally, voice low. “I’ve spent so long trying to be good at what I do, I didn’t realize how much of me got through.”
He held my gaze. “It’s not about the Cup anymore. It’s about the people who showed up with me. Those videos… the best shoutout I could’ve asked for any time of a season.”
I kissed his cheek. “Exactly.”
When he finally got up to finish getting ready, something in him looked lighter.
As if the weight he’d carried for years had finally shifted.
I walked him out and stood on the porch, watching him drive away.
The morning glowed, bright and still, but that small ache in me—the one about my mom—kept nudging for air.
I used to love sitting with my dad on the porch on weekends, watching him tidy up his work week. Papers with numbers scattered across the table, cold coffee beside him. Now he works at the golf course.
I texted him.
Me: Hey dad, can I meet you at work later? I’ll give you a ride back. Today, you work half a day, right?
Dad: Hey sweetie! Yes. Are you alright?
Me: Yeah, just want to talk.
Dad: Of course, come over.
I threw my stuff in my car and drove out. The golf course was quiet when I arrived, it was early before the weekend crowd fully trickled in. I wandered past the clubhouse, letting the sun warm my shoulders, the scent of cut grass and oak filling the air.
Half an hour later, my phone buzzed.
Dad: I’m done now. Meet me by the cart path?
I spotted him near the edge of the driving range, his cap on, khakis dusted with green. He waved, and I walked over.