10. Cassy
Chapter ten
Cassy
A ndrew’s giving an overview, “…So, we’d film on the plane first, during boarding and take-off. Nothing invasive, just casual stuff. Get some shots of the players settling in, checking out the jet, maybe some banter between the pairs.”
Someone nods. I don’t see or care who. My eyes are fixed on the agenda in front of me, but I haven’t absorbed a single word in the last ten minutes.
Three and a half fucking hours of sitting in this boardroom while my stomach’s been eating itself alive.
“Are we assigning a shooter for the hotel check-in?” Suzanna asks, scrolling through her tablet. “We’ll be arriving around 3:00 PM, and I want lobby footage if they’re joking around or giving first impressions. Then we can do the room setups.”
I feel Riley’s eyes slide toward me again. That glance she’s sent my way at least six times this meeting. Not the friendly kind. The ‘what the hell is wrong with you’ kind.
I ignore her.
“Blake and Brody share again,” Gretchen confirms. “Same with Bishy and now Davis. McAvoy and Peters. All are in double-room suites booked at the San Jose Marriott. We’ll get B-roll in the corridor once they’ve gone in.”
“Game-day build-up starts at the hotel on Saturday morning,” Andrew says. “Behind-the-scenes gearing up for the game, bus ride, etc., real up close. That’s all going to give stronger insights into the team rather than the usual pre-skate stuff.”
“It’s a 7:00 PM puck drop at the SV Center,” Susanna adds. “So, we’ll have the crew arrive around five. Any issues with security clearances?”
“No,” Tarquin answers, tapping something into his laptop. “I confirmed with their head of media. We’re good.”
Someone coughs. I flinch at the sound. My nerves feel like they’ve been peeled back to the bare wire.
Fuck. I don’t know if I can do this. Not right now. Not while my life is spiraling into something I don’t recognize.
“We want to hit confessionals late Saturday night,” Riley picks up, steady. “Once they’re back in their rooms, decompressing. Keep the camera setup casual, with minimal lighting. Just them talking. Whatever they feel like saying.”
I lift my coffee cup, even though it’s been empty for an hour, just to have something to hold.
Musa’s voice cuts through the lull. “And then we wrap on Sunday, the 26th. Shoot the airport journey home, get a few last interviews on the bus. Nothing too formal. Keep it all light.”
Light?
The word grates.
“This is all fine,” I manage, and I hate how brittle I sound.
I clear my throat. “Just confirming that everyone knows the travel timeline. Friday the 24th, private charter from Harry Reid. Departure is 1:15 PM, arrival at San Jose International at approximately 2:45 PM. Bus directly to the hotel, and the rest of the plan follows from there.”
A few nods. Some scrolling. Agreement murmured.
“And remember,” Mikey chips in, far too happy for my mood. “Once all the filming's done, I'll be editing all the footage down to thirty minutes. No more.”
And with that obviously gripping piece of information, I've had about as much as I can take. “Okay. Anyone got anything else to add? Or are we done?” My mind keeps replaying THAT night in Sin City when Blake played me like a fool. Just a fucking bet. That's all I was.
“Ah... great,” Andrew says, stretching. “That’s it from my side.”
“Same,” Holly replies.
I close the folder on the desk in front of me, slower than necessary. My hand is unsteady. No one seems to notice.
Everyone begins shifting. Chairs scrape, and people stand. The energy lifts a little.
I stay seated.
Riley lingers behind as the boardroom clears. She doesn’t look at me right away, just gathers her tablet and waits for the last door to close.
Then she looks at me.
“You, okay?”
No. I’m very fucking far from okay!
But I nod.
She doesn’t buy it.
“Cass…”
“I said I’m fine.” My voice is sharp. Too fast. “Can we not do this right now?”
She watches me. Really watches. Not in a judgmental way. Just…careful.
And I don’t want careful. I want this day to be over.
I want to rewind before I ever met that fuck-face, Mitchell. “I’ve got emails to send,” I mutter, already turning my focus back to the table, the notes, anything but her face.
“Alright,” Riley says finally. “But I’m here. Just… if you need me. Okay?”
I nod again. The door closes behind her.
And for the first time in three and a half hours, I exhale.
Quiet. Shaky. Alone.
A bet. I was a fucking bet. ME. I could claw his damn eyes out!
My chest caves in like something sharp just punched straight through it. I press a hand flat against the table, but I can’t steady myself.
I’m pregnant.
I don’t even know how to be that word. And I definitely don’t know how to be that word after finding out the guy who knocked me up only touched me to win a stupid fucking dare.
The sting behind my eyes swells fast. My throat’s closing, and I don’t even care anymore.
Tears blur everything. The table, the chairs, and the fake Ficus plant in the corner that looks like it’s judging me.
My laptop slams shut. Loud. I don’t care.
I just need to get out of here. NOW.
I grab it, all of it. Laptop. Papers. My phone. My tote bag. My charger. I don’t know why. None of it matters right now.
I yank the conference room door open and storm through Media and Comms like a grenade someone forgot to defuse.
Heads turn. I catch glimpses of faces, Andrew, Tarquin, someone from analytics, maybe Content, but none of them register properly. They’re just blobs. Blurry, vague, stunned blobs.
I power through the office, weaving past desks like I’m avoiding enemy fire. My vision’s shot, wet, useless. But I know where I’m going. My office.
The door’s right there. I shove it open, step inside, and practically throw the laptop and papers down like they’re public enemy number one. My tote bag slides off my shoulder and hits the floor.
I can't breathe in here.
I grab it back up, snatch my keycard where it dangles from the stupid elastic belt loop, lock the office behind me, and walk back out without another glance.
No one tries to stop me. Maybe they know better. Maybe they just don’t want to get involved.
Down the hallway, my heels echo like I’m counting down to detonation. The corridors are a blur of movement, arena staff, trainers, and people from team ops. I can’t see them clearly, and I don’t care.
I’m seconds from making it to the entrance, freedom, finally—
And then I slam straight into a wall of solid, immovable man.
Except it’s not a wall. It’s my dad. He grabs my elbow on instinct. “Hey, Cassy. Not so fast. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
I jerk back like he burned me.
He stares, his brow furrowed, trying to process what the hell he just walked into. His eyes dart to my face, and whatever he sees there hits him like a slap.
Then the whole thing shatters.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just air.
Just a broken little gasp that finally lets everything else rip through.
My chest caves in. My knees threaten to follow.
I can’t hold it back anymore. It crashes out of me all at once, messy, loud, ugly.
The sob starts in my gut and explodes straight through my throat.
“Hey, hey, Jesus, Cassy,” My dad moves in fast, pulling me into him like he doesn’t even think about it.
I don’t resist. I can’t.
I just let go, burying my face into the front of his sweatshirt, rough cotton, warm, already soaking through from the tears coming harder now, hotter, thicker, impossible to stop.
My fists bunch at his sides, and I just cling like I did when I was five and had a nightmare about the pool and woke up screaming.
He holds me tight. Strong, steady. Nothing else in the corridor moves for a second.
And then I hear it. The hush. People watching.
Murmurs die out like someone hit a mute button.
I know what this must look like, Coach McCullum’s grown daughter, snot-faced and sobbing like a soap opera lead mid-breakdown. I don’t even care.
He glances past me and his voice booms like a threat. “Do I need to tell everyone here to mind their own GODDAMN BUSINESS?”
A shuffle. A door closes. Silence.
Then his voice comes again, low, calm, dead serious. “Come on, Cass. I’m your father. Now, please tell me what in God's name this is all about. And that’s an order.”
I try. I do. I bite the inside of my cheek, inhaling like it’ll help, but it doesn’t. My throat still spasms around the mess.
I lift my head just barely, eyes swollen and stinging, voice shredded. “Not here.”
He nods without arguing. “Okay. My office. Come on, whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”
I don’t say a word. I don’t even flinch. I just follow him because I have no idea what else to do.
We head down the corridor, past the wall of framed jerseys and Hall of Fame plaques. Past the locker room, where I can hear the dull roar of the team, shouting, thuds, skate guards against floor tile, someone yelling something about protein shakes.
It’s all muffled. Like another universe.
He keys into his office and pushes the door open. I step in after him, my arms folded tight around my stomach like that’ll hold everything in, and kick shut the door behind me.
Then I lean back against it.
And try like hell to remember how to breathe.
Dad doesn’t say anything. Just walks straight to the little fridge wedged between the filing cabinet and the mini trophy shelf.
He pops it open, pulls out two cans of Diet Coke, and tosses one to me like we’re gearing up for a pre-game chat instead of the emotional apocalypse currently unfolding inside my chest.
I catch it. Barely. My hands are shaking.
He gestures with a nod toward the sofa in the far corner, the one that still has one of those old team blankets crumpled over the back.
I sniff and wipe my nose on my sleeve because dignity is for people who haven’t just imploded in the middle of a public corridor.