Page 46 of The Secret Play

“I didn’t abandon anyone,” I said finally, my voice tight. “I swear to you, Whitney. That’s not who I am.”

“I know that, Casey,” she repeated. “But if I’m going to help you fix this, I need to know everything. The truth. No holding back.”

I hesitated. Telling Whitney was a big risk. But as much as she knew me, I knew her, too. I trusted her, and Whitney couldn’t help me if I didn’t give her the full picture.

“All right,” I said, letting out a shaky breath. “Here’s the truth...”

I told her everything.

I started with the masquerade fundraiser five years ago, the woman in the peacock mask, the one-night stand that had lingered in the back of my mind ever since.

Then I told her about Gemma. How we’d reconnected recently, how things had started to grow between us. That she had a daughter, Winnie, who was almost five—the exact timeline of that night at the masquerade.

“And the thing is,” I said, my voice quieter now, “it took me a while to put it together, and when I did, I asked. Today, in fact, when we were at Sweet Nothings. I asked if Winnie might be mine, and…she didn’t say no. She didn’t say yes, either, but the way she reacted…”

“What do you mean?”

“She got angry,” I admitted. “She shut me down, told me it wasn’t my business. But she didn’t deny it.”

Whitney was quiet for a long moment, her eyes narrowing in thought. “So, you think Winnie might be yours.”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I can’t stop thinking about it. The timing, the birthmark, the way she acts—it all lines up too perfectly to ignore. Or maybe I’m just an old fool who has always wanted children and a family, and I’m seeing things that aren’t there. I don’t know anything for certain.”

Whitney exhaled slowly, running a hand through her long, dark hair. Somehow, it fell perfectly back into place, though I suspected that was because nothing of Whitney Dobson’s would ever be out of place. She was always too poised, too perfect. A gorgeous woman, to be sure, but far too just-so for my liking. Probably because she was a former model. In all the years I’d known her, I’d never seen her look anything less than stellar.

It was easier to focus on Whitney than the vortex of possibilities I was being sucked into.

She sighed. “This is messy, Casey. Really messy. And the fact that it involves a player’s sister…”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

She leaned against the desk, crossing her arms. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. First, I’ll try to figure out where this rumor started and find out what else they think they know. Second, I’ll work on damage control—get ahead of it before it gets worse. But Casey, you need to be prepared for the fact that this might not just go away. Rumors like this don’t die easy deaths.”

“What do I do in the meantime?”

“Focus on the team,” she said. “Keep your head down, stay professional. Don’t give anyone a reason to think the rumors are true. Don’t let them see you sweat. You’re Coach. They need to remember who it is they’re gossiping about.”

I nodded, though the knot in my stomach didn’t ease. “Thanks, Whitney. For everything.”

She gave me a small smile, her tone softening. “You’re a good guy, Casey. Don’t let this mess convince you otherwise.”

After she left, I sat at my desk, staring at the wall as her words echoed in my mind.

A good guy.

Was I? If Winnie was mine, what did that say about me? About the man I thought I was? I hadn’t known she was out there, but how much did that matter to a child her age? All she knew was that she didn’t have a daddy.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Gemma’s reaction during our last conversation had left a lingering doubt I couldn’t ignore. She hadn’t denied it. She had only gotten angry that I was asking her about her past sex life. If Winnie wasn’t mine, I could understand why she was upset.

If Winnie was mine, that reaction would also make sense.

So, it wasn’t proof of anything either way. Which didn’t help matters. And now, with the rumors swirling, I couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that I was right about Winnie. There were too many coincidences that lined up.

That afternoon, I zipped up my Coach’s jacket and stepped onto the ice for practice, hoping the jacket would remind my players who they were dealing with and that the routine would clear my head. But the tension in the arena was still there. The players were quieter than usual, their banter subdued as they skated drills.

A few of them shot me wary glances between drills. It was clear the rumor had reached them, and the thought of my own team doubting me made me sick. Trust was a fragile thing, and they thought I had broken it.

After practice, I pulled a few of the veteran players aside.

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