Page 84 of The Secret Play

Nico’s grin stretched wide, the kind of confident smirk that only came from years of knowing how good he was. “Got it, Coach.”

“Don’t overthink it,” I added. “Just trust the play. They won’t see it coming.”

He nodded, and I watched as he carried that confidence back to the ice. Moments like these were why I loved this game—seeing the pieces fall into place, the adrenaline of knowing we were about to turn the tide.

When the team hit the ice together, it was like poetry in motion. Nico executed the play perfectly, faking left so convincingly that their winger nearly tripped over himself trying to follow. All his momentum had him going the other way, but Nico could pivot with the best of them. Lopez was in position in the blink of an eye, and his stick met the puck with a resoundingclackbefore it sailed into the net.

The crowd erupted, and I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. Tied game.

Despite the brief rush of that victory, my nerves were shot.

I glanced at my phone, and still there was no response. I’d tried everything. I hated feeling disconnected from her. It felt like missing a limb. Whether it was her dead phone or intentional silence, I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter now. The truth was out there, and the fans were already reacting. They were quick to jump on any information about the team, and they certainly pounced on this one.

A secret child kept from her father? A sneaky mom who wanted to have her cake and eat it, too? It was scandalous enough to make the fans forget they were at the Stanley Cup. The signs in the stands were proof enough that they had bought her story hook, line, and sinker. Instead of anything about the importance of the game, the signs read things like, “Gemma Pucking Sucks!” “Coach is King!”

They were rallying behind me and had directed their anger squarely at her, just as she had planned.

It was sweet in a way. Fans were diehard loyalists in hockey, and most of the time, that was great. We needed that kind of loyalty. Hockey played a lot of games each season, and without loyalty, there were no ticket sales. Hockey was like any other pro sport—a business first.

But this wasn’t one of those times when people would see the signs and think they were sweet or supportive. I was glad we had rules about what they could write on their signs, but several pushed the boundaries of what we allowed. Sometimes, the P in Puck didn’t connect how it should have, leaving them to read, “Fuck Gemma!” Those signs would likely not get broadcast, I hoped.

But Gemma had gotten what she set out to achieve. She had flipped the narrative, just like she said she would.

It didn’t sit right with me. I didn’t want her painted as the villain while I came out looking like a hero. And Winnie…God, what about Winnie? Could she read those signs? Would she understand them?

The thought of my daughter seeing those signs and hearing the whispers about her mom made my stomach churn. I’d spent my career teaching my players to take hits, to get back up, but this was different. I couldn’t take these hits from them. I couldn’t cheer them on to get back up if this hit landed.

Life was not hockey. It was unpredictable and spun out in ways you never saw coming. As much as I tried to treat everything like hockey, there was no playbook for life.

This wasn’t about me anymore. I didn’t want this bullshit for my family. The more I thought about it, the more pissed off I got. I had to do something.

Whitney found me during the second intermission, her ever-present tablet in hand. She looked calm, but I knew her well enough to see the sharpness in her eyes. “You look like hell.”

“Feel like it, too, thanks,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice so only I could hear. “The fans are with you, Casey. The story’s trending, and it’s working. People are rallying behind you. Matthew won’t touch you with this kind of support. You’re golden, so enjoy it.”

I shook my head, the tension in my chest tightening. At my age, I should have been worried about my chest tightening so much lately, but I had Gemma and Winnie to think about. “They’re rallying against Gemma. Nothing gets people riled up like a common enemy.”

“She knew what she was doing. This was her choice.”

“I didn’t want her to do this,” I said, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “She never asked me what I wanted. Not with Winnie and not with the article.” It was high time I made it clear what I wanted. I’d already planned to, but this solidified things.

Whitney studied me for a moment, her expression tensing. “Why do I see the gears turning in your head, Casey?”

It was funny how calm I felt after the decision was made. It felt like a puzzle piece falling into place in my mind. I smiled, finally feeling at peace for the first time in a long time. Maybe for the first time ever. “Sorry, Whit. Get ready for a long night.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll see,” I said, already moving past her toward the locker room.

Nico waited near the locker room, already suited up. His helmet was tucked under one arm, and there was a fire in his eyes that reminded me of why he was one of the best.

“You good?” I asked, stepping up beside him.

“Yeah. You?”

“Ask me after the game,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.

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