9. Jordan
JORDAN
The phone's been going off for six minutes before I reach for it.
Not one call. Dozens. The screen lights up every few seconds—text, call, text, call—my publicist's name repeating like a siren I can't shut off. The kind of phone activity that means something exploded while I was asleep.
Jessica stirs beside me, her hand sliding across the sheets toward the empty space where I was. I catch it before she wakes fully, fold her fingers into mine, and answer the phone.
"Jordan." Maya's voice comes fast, tight. No greeting. She's already in damage-control mode. "Have you seen it?"
"Seen what?”
"The articles. They went live an hour ago—Time, Sports Illustrated, ESPN, TMZ, every outlet with a sports section. The headline's the same everywhere: hockey legend gets stepdaughter pregnant, assaults reporter outside hospital."
The words hit like a puck to the ribs, sharp and precise. I sit up, keep my voice low so Jessica doesn't wake. "What else?”
"The parking lot footage—the reporter's version. Edited. Shows you grabbing him, your face, the snarl. No context. No lead-up. Just your hand on his collar and him stumbling back."
My jaw locks. "And?"
"He filed an assault charge. This morning.
His lawyer's already talking to the press—self-defense angle, claims you attacked him unprovoked, says you've been 'volatile' since he threatened to go public with your relationship.
" She pauses. "Jordan, this is bad. The timing couldn't be worse. You're in the finals. The optics?—"
"Send me the articles."
"Jordan—"
"Send them."
The line goes quiet. Then: "Check your email."
I hang up. Open my inbox. Six links, all from Maya, all timestamped within the last hour.
I read the first one. Then the second. Then the third.
Same story, different outlet. Same headline, slightly reworded. Titans Captain in Assault Scandal—Stepdaughter Pregnant. Jordan Scott's Secret Relationship Ends in Violence. Hockey Legend Loses It Outside Hospital—Pregnant Stepdaughter Involved.
The articles don't call Jessica by name—privacy laws, probably—but they describe her.
Young woman, early twenties, identified as the daughter of Scott's brief, undisclosed marriage.
They frame it like a scandal I've been hiding.
Like something dirty I kept in the dark until a reporter shone a light.
The parking lot footage plays on loop in my head—not the version they're running, the real one. The reporters rushing us. The mic shoved at Jessica's face. The guy grabbing her arm. Her stumbling.
And then my hand on his collar.
That's the part they kept.
Cold fury settles in my chest, the kind that doesn't burn hot or loud. The kind that plans.
Jessica shifts beside me, her eyes opening slow. She sees my face and goes still.
"Jordan?"
I set the phone down. Look at her. Hair tangled on the pillow, blue eyes worried, one hand resting on her stomach like she's protecting what's inside even in her sleep.
"The articles are out."
Her face goes pale. "What do they say?"
"Everything." I keep my voice even. "The pregnancy. The stepdaughter angle. The parking lot. They're calling it an assault."
"Oh my God."
"They edited the footage. Cut out everything that happened before I touched him. Made it look like I attacked him unprovoked."
Her breath catches. "Jordan?—"
"I'm doing a press conference."
She sits up, sheets pooling around her waist. "What? No. You can't?—"
"I can. I will." I reach for her face, cup her jaw in one hand. "I won't let anyone get away with putting their hands on the woman carrying my child."
"Jordan, the finals—your career?—"
"Doesn't matter."
"Yes it does?—"
"Not more than you."
The words come out flat, certain. Not up for debate. She stares at me, her eyes filling with tears she's trying not to let fall.
"What are you going to say?"
"The truth."
"They'll twist it?—"
"Not if I show them what really happened."
Her forehead creases. "What do you mean?"
"The hospital parking lot had cameras. CCTV. Mounted on the building, covering the lot. They must have caught everything—the reporters rushing us, the mic shoved at you, the grab. The full context."
Her breath stops. "You can get the footage?"
"Already told Maya to."
She searches my face, looking for something—doubt, fear, hesitation. I don't give her any. This is what I do. I've spent years performing under pressure, cameras in my face, microphones recording every word. A press conference is just another game. Different arena, same skill set.
Except this time it's not about me.
I lean in, kiss her forehead. Her mouth. Hold her face in both hands and feel her pulse racing under my thumbs.
"I'll handle it," I say. "I've been handling cameras my entire career. This is just one more."
Except it's not.
Because this time it's her.
The arena's quiet when I walk in—too early for media, too late for morning skate. Just staff setting up equipment in the press room, the hum of overhead lights, the echo of my footsteps on polished concrete.
Brennan's waiting outside the locker room, arms crossed, clipboard under one arm. He looks up when I approach, his face carved into the permanent scowl of a man who's spent three decades behind a bench.
"Scott."
"Coach."
He doesn't waste time. "You doing this?"
"Yeah."
"You need to?"
"Yeah."
He studies me—same way he's studied me for years, the look that cuts through bullshit and sees whether a player's head is in the game. Whatever he finds, it satisfies him. He nods once.
"Handle it. I've got the ice."
That's it. No lecture. No concern about distractions or optics or the finals. Just: handle your business, I trust you.
I nod back. "Thanks, Coach."
He grunts, turns toward the rink. Then stops. "Scott."
"Yeah."
"You did the right thing. In that parking lot." His eyes meet mine, steady. "Don't let anyone tell you different."
He walks away before I can respond.
Inside the locker room, Luca's already on me.
"There he is." He's up off the bench before I'm through the door, crossing the room in four strides, his face red. "Did you see that garbage? Did you see what they're saying?"
"I saw."
"It's bullshit. Complete bullshit. You protected your girl and they're acting like you jumped some innocent guy?—"
"Luca—"
"No, I'm serious, if I see that reporter I'm gonna?—"
"Luca." Nate's voice cuts through, calm and low. He's sitting in his stall, already half in his gear, watching us both. "Let him breathe."
Luca stops, chest heaving, hands on his hips. He looks at me like he's waiting for permission to keep going.
I shake my head. "Save it for the ice."
"You doing the press thing?"
"Yeah."
"Good." He jabs a finger toward the door. "Tear them apart."
Nate stands, crosses to me in two steps. Puts one hand on my shoulder—solid, steady, the weight of loyalty compressed into a single touch.
"We're behind you," he says.
That's it. Two words. Maximum impact.
I nod. "Thanks."
He drops his hand, steps back. Luca claps me on the arm hard enough to bruise. "Go get them, Cap."
I head to the press room.
The podium's already set up—Titans logo behind me, mic angled up, camera crews lining the back wall.
Bright lights aimed at the space where I'll stand.
I've done this hundreds of times. Post-game pressers, sponsorship announcements, playoff media days.
I know the rhythm: speak clearly, give them the quote, control the narrative.
But today, the narrative is personal.
I step up to the podium. The cameras click before I've said a word—shutters firing, recording lights blinking red. The room's packed. More journalists than a normal presser, more cameras than a game day. They smell blood.
I wait. Let the noise settle. When the room's quiet enough, I lean into the mic.
"My personal life is none of your business."
Pause. Let that land. The cameras keep clicking.
"But since you've decided to make it yours, I'll say this once."
The room holds its breath.
"Jessica is my girlfriend. She's a consenting adult. I never met her until a few months ago—the marriage to her mother was brief, quiet, and over before we ever crossed paths. We are not related by blood. We are two adults who chose each other."
I say it flat. Clear. Looking directly into the cameras. No defensiveness. No apology. Just facts.
A reporter in the third row opens her mouth. I cut her off before she speaks.
"The reporter who filed the assault charge seems to have forgotten what happened before I touched him. So I'm going to remind everyone."
I signal to the tech booth. The screen behind me flickers on.
The CCTV footage plays.
Black-and-white, overhead angle, timestamp in the corner.
Jessica and me walking out of the hospital—her hand in mine, her face tired.
Then the two reporters rushing us from the left side of the frame.
The mic shoved at her face. The aggressive questions I can't hear but can read in their body language.
The reporter blocking our path, stepping into Jessica's space. Her trying to move around him.
His hand grabbing her arm.
Her almost stumbling.
And then—only then—my hand on his collar.
The room watches. Silent. The cameras keep rolling, but the energy shifts—subtle, immediate. The press is seeing the full context for the first time. The narrative they've been running just collapsed.
I let the footage speak. When it ends, I lean back into the mic.
"If you grab my woman—my pregnant woman—of course I won't just stand around and watch."
Pause.
"See you in court, asshole."
I step away from the podium. Don't take questions. The room erupts behind me—shouted questions, camera shutters, chaos. I walk through it without turning back, my shoes loud on the tile, the press room door swinging shut behind me and cutting off the noise.
Maya's waiting in the hallway, phone in hand, her face somewhere between stunned and impressed.
"That was?—"
"I'm going home."
She nods. "Go."
The penthouse is quiet when I walk in. No TV. No music. Just the hum of the city through the windows and the sound of my keys hitting the counter.
Jessica's on the couch, curled into the corner with her knees pulled up, laptop open beside her. She looks up when she hears me, and her face cracks.
"I watched," she says. Her voice breaks on the second word.
I cross the room. Sit beside her, pull her into my lap, and kiss her hard—mouth, jaw, the tears on her cheeks. She tastes like salt and relief and something I don't have a name for.
"Jordan—"
"I love you."
The words come out blunt. Spare. Stripped of everything but truth. I've never said them before. Never to anyone. But I say them now, with my forehead pressed to hers, my hands holding her face, her breath shaking against my mouth.
"I love you."
She stares at me, eyes wide and wet, and then she's kissing me—hard, desperate, her hands fisting in my shirt.
"I love you," she says against my mouth. "I love you, I love you?—"
I hold her. Arms around her back, her head tucked under my chin, her body warm and solid and here. The press conference is over. The articles don't matter. The reporter can take me to court if he wants—I've got footage, I've got lawyers, I've got the truth.
But none of that matters as much as this.
Her. In my arms. Safe.
"I love you," I say again, quieter this time. Just for her.
She tilts her head back, looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes and a smile that's half laugh, half sob.
"Good," she says. "Because you're stuck with me now."
I kiss her again. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that says I know without needing the words.
Outside, the city hums. Inside, it's just us. Her heartbeat against my chest. My hands in her hair. The three words still warm in the room.
Home.