Page 83 of The Secret Play

“Besides, you’ve liked Nico since the seventh grade.”

She laughed. “I was a kid when I told you that.”

“And some things never change.”

The game started strong, the Fire dominating the ice with an intensity that had the crowd on their feet. Winnie was glued to the action, cheering and clapping with every play. She didn’t understand much of it other than the cheering. She followed the crowd’s cues, getting into the game more than I had expected, and the people nearby encouraged her enthusiasm. She was having the best night ever.

But as the cameras panned across the audience, my stomach sank. I hadn’t noticed it when we walked in. People always held up signs for their favorite players, and I had brushed past them without a second thought when we found our seats. The cameras told a different story.

Scattered throughout the crowd were signs—“Justice for Coach!” “Gemma Pucked Up!” and similar phrases scrawled in bold letters.

Megan’s mouth dropped almost immediately, her brows furrowing. “What the hell?”

“It’s fine,” I said quickly, trying to keep my voice steady. “As long as no one says anything to us, we’ll stay.”

“But—”

“It’s fine,” I said firmly, cutting her off.

The signs were a harsh reminder of the scrutiny I was under. There was judgment that came with putting our lives out there. But I wasn’t going to let it ruin the night for Winnie. I could overlook it as long as they didn’t bother us directly.

This was Winnie’s moment, her chance to see her uncle in action and enjoy the game's magic. I could take the heat. I deserved it, after all.

Chapter 33

Casey

The arena pulsed with noise, hitting deep in your chest and vibrating in your bones. This kind of thing gave me strength, knowing my city was behind me. I loved it. I lived for it. Fans cheered and shouted, their voices merging into a single, deafening roar that filled every inch of the space. This was where I thrived. The energy, the passion, the stakes, the purpose—it was the air I breathed. Pure sustenance.

But tonight, things were different.

This wasn’t about me or the team or even Atlanta. The story Gemma had published, and the scrutiny hanging over us all pressed down on me. Even if we won the game, Matthew was not guaranteed to keep me on. In fact, several clauses in my contract stated the exact opposite. He was within his rights to fire me. He could show up and with a wave of his finger, I was gone.

So, I had to make tonight count. If this was the end of my professional career, I’d damn well make my mark. That thought pushed me forward.

At least I tried to get caught up in the wave of it. But it was a struggle. Before we took the ice, I had texted and called Gemma, but to no avail. She knew what I wanted—for her to retract the article. It was the only way to save her from the public scrutiny.

So, she didn’t respond.

I understood her side of it, but I hated this. It ate at me every second I wasn’t with her. She shouldn’t have had to be the bad guy in this. There were no bad guys in this, only people doing their best at the time.

She made her call when it came to Winnie, and she wasn’t wrong to doubt me. She didn’t know me. How could she trust that I would have been a good father to our daughter? It would have been crazy to trust a stranger with your child, and I supported that decision once I had cleared my head about it.

I could have gotten caught up in the what-ifs of it, but that wasn’t going to move things forward. Neither was Gemma ignoring me. Or maybe she was. With her lack of response, I had no choice but to focus on the game. And even still, it was hard.

Nico was right. I had to trust Gemma. She had been a single mom on her own across the country for five years. She had no family, no friends in LA whom she spoke of. Pregnancy, labor, delivery, having an infant, and raising her into the quirky, sweet girl I knew, Gemma had done all of that on her own while making a name for herself in her industry.

That woman was stronger than I gave her credit for, which was my mistake. Nico was right about that. She could handle an article that she wrote about herself. She made that choice clear-eyed and level-headed. I had to stop underestimating her, and I vowed to do exactly that in the future.

The game itself was brutal. The Seattle Razor’s defense was air-tight, their reads sharp, and they’d studied us well. Every move we made, every play we tried to set up, they were a step ahead or countered us. Matthew had been right about me. I’d grown too predictable if the Razors could read my plays on the ice like this. It wasn’t just skill that we faced. It was strategy, discipline, grit, and the willingness to get their hands dirty.

The first period had been relentless, and I had to shift gears by the time the buzzer sounded.

The intermission came quickly, and I didn’t waste a second. During the game, my eyes had stayed locked on the ice, watching their defense's patterns. I saw the openings, the moments they overcommitted to speed, but we weren’t exploiting them yet. Speed and brute force were their strengths. We had to play to their weaknesses.

I grabbed the whiteboard and called my centers over.

“Nico,” I said, my voice cutting through the locker room noise, “when you’re back out there, fake left. Make it big—sell it hard. Their winger’s overcommitting every time. He spends too much time building speed. He doesn’t have enough power behind it, zero agility, and that’s your advantage. When he bites, drive the puck straight through the center. Lopez will be open. He always is because he’s new, and they think I don’t trust him yet. Let’s make them regret that.”

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