Page 62 of Snowed In With the PUCK

My blood runs cold as I skim through the lines, barely registering half the words. The article paints a tragic picture of Linda, of her struggle to overcome her addiction, and of her decision to stay away from Eric when he was young. It’s an invasive exposé that reveals so much more than it has any right to.

It hits me then—Eric was right. Back in Vegas, he’d noticed someone tailing us, someone with an interest in where we were going. And I hadn’t wanted to believe it. I hadn’t thought anyone would go to such lengths to expose something so deeply personal and vulnerable, especially not about Linda.

Panic claws at me as I realize Eric probably hasn’t even seen this yet. If he finds out now, just before the game…no, I can’t let him see it yet. Amanda’s right about that. I try calling him, hoping I can reach him before someone else mentions the article.

He doesn’t answer.

I send a text, telling him to not look at the news, that he should just focus on the game. But deep down, I know it’s too late to shield him from this. Word travels fast, and there are too many people at the arena who may already have seen it. I can almost picture his reaction, his face hardening, that mask he wears when he’s hurting but refuses to show it.

And the anger. I know Eric well enough by now to know that anger will be his first reaction. I can imagine him feeling like this article confirmed every one of his worst fears about openingup to people, about trusting too easily, about letting his guard down.

I sink onto the couch, my mind racing. I know exactly what needs to be done next. There’s no way a publication should have been able to get away with this. I know it in my gut, and even without being an entertainment attorney specializing in protecting people from invasive and unethical journalistic practices, I know that Linda and Eric both have grounds to go after them for privacy invasion.

I scroll through my contacts and dial a number I haven’t called in weeks. My father’s name flashes on the screen, and I take a steadying breath as I hear his voice on the other end. I’m still mad at him, but I also need his help.

“Jessica? This is a surprise.” Then his voice changes from friendly to one of utmost concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Hi, Dad. I… I need your help.”

I dive straight into the story, sparing no detail about Eric, his mother, and how the journalist apparently posed as a rehab patient to gain access to Linda’s records and their private lives. Dad listens, his voice calm but steely as he assesses the situation, asking all the right questions, making notes, planning out a strategy as only he can. My dad is many things that I prefer he wasn’t, but this part of him, the professional problem solver, is a part of him I admire.

When I finish, he’s quiet for a moment. “Jess, this is serious. I’m not sure who Eric’s existing representation is, but I’m happy to look into privacy violation claims. This story—it sounds likeThe Presscrossed major lines, possibly even criminal ones, if they impersonated someone to access restricted areas.”

My shoulders relax, the smallest amount of relief seeping in. “Thank you, Dad. I just couldn’t think of anyone else who could help us.”

“Jess,” he says, his tone softening. “Let me handle this. I’ll get in touch with a few colleagues in Denver who specialize in sports and entertainment. We’ll do everything we can to make sure this gets handled.”

When we hang up, I finally exhale. But my heart is still pounding, knowing that even if we can fight this legally, the damage is already done. Linda’s story is out there now, and Eric is facing his worst nightmare.

Chapter thirty-one

Eric

I’m sitting on theedge of the bench in the locker room, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, trying to focus on the upcoming game. Only one hour to go. But my phone buzzes, and I can’t help glancing down. It’s a text from Jessica.

Jess:An article came out. Wait until after the game to look at it. Promise me.

My chest tightens, and I grip the phone harder, sensing that whatever this article is, it’s not good. But wait until after the game? She knows me better than that. I can’t ignore this, not when my gut’s already twisting with dread.

I should leave it alone, keep my head in the game, but I can already hear the guys murmuring in hushed voices. Some look away when I catch their eye; others look like they want to saysomething but don’t. Finally, Ryan, who’s usually more talk than sense when he’s high on pre-game dopamine, pats my shoulder.

“Eric, man, just ignore the noise. People will always find a way to twist things, yeah?”

I stare back, my mouth going dry. “What…noise, exactly?”

Ryan shifts uncomfortably, glancing away. “Just something some trash paper put out there. Some journalist probably thought they had a story, but they’re wrong. Just remember, it doesn’t matter. It’s game time.”

Before I can stop myself, I open the article. The headline alone sends a jolt of anger through me:NHL Star’s Secret Visit to Mother Battling Addiction Reveals His Tragic Past.

The article dives into Linda’s struggle with addiction, calling it a “haunting legacy” I’ve carried through my career. It mentions Vegas, calling out my visit toSunrise Rehabilitation Center, and even goes as far as detailing how she had “abandoned” me when I was three. The whole piece is littered with speculations, skewed narratives, and “quotes” from anonymous sources who “witnessed” our reunion.

It’s everything I didn’t want out there, twisted and distorted until it doesn’t even resemble the truth. I’m angry at myself, at the idiot who followed us, at the world for thinking it had any right to rip open our lives for everyone to dissect.

This is Linda’s privacy they invaded, mymom’sprivacy.

Coach steps up beside me, hand on my shoulder, his expression serious but somehow compassionate.

“Eric, don’t let this mess with your head tonight,” he says. “You’re here to play hockey, and that’s all you need to focus on right now. The rest of it…deal with it later.”

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