Page 125 of Conrad

He stared out at the crowd, sweat trickling along his spine.

“Has there been any contact or reconciliation with the other party involved in the fight?”

He shook his head, the edges of his vision closing in.Shoot?—

West held up his hand. “One at a time.”

“What message do you have for young fans who look up to you and might be influenced by these events?”

He looked at the woman who’d thrown out the question. Mid-twenties, blonde hair—wait.He knew her.Ava.She met his eyes. “What is the nature of your relationship with Penelope Pepper, and how was she involved in this altercation?”

He leaned toward her. “She wasn’t.” More of a bark than a statement, and his stomach began to roil.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he glanced over at his father. He wore a tight expression. “You okay?”

No.But Conrad just turned back to the crowd. Opened his mouth.

Nothing emerged.

“Leave the man alone!”

The voice lifted from behind the crowd, more voices with it. “Yeah, leave him alone! Leave King Con alone!”

He searched and spotted—what?The Ice Hawks, or at least a good handful of them, pushing through the crowd to the front.

“Hey, Coach Con!” said one of the players—the winger he’d taught how to shoot—and skinny Jeremy Johnson and even Tyler Bouchard, and coach Simon and then . . .

Joe Johnson. The man walked up on crutches, but wearing an Ice Hawks jersey and a wool hat, looking sturdy, his eyes clear.

And a smile.

He walked right up to Conrad and held out his hand.

What?Conrad reached out, his eyes wide at the gesture.

Joe tightened his grip, stepped up, and pulled Con to himself. “I see you, Conrad. I’ve always seen you. Let it go.”

Conrad leaned back, met his gaze, and Joe smiled at him, kindness in his eyes. “Forgiveness doesn’t have to be earned. It just has to be accepted.” Then he squeezed Conrad’s hand and let go.

Oh.Now Conrad really couldn’t breathe.

Joe turned and held up his hands. “Leave our hometown hero alone. He has a game to get to.”

The Ice Hawks sent their fists into the air with a chant of “King Con, King Con.” And what. was.happening?

“My guess is that Steve Bouchard is not as popular as he thinks he is,” Jack said, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Conrad swallowed, then raised his hands, and the kids quieted. He glanced at West.

“Keep your statement simple.”

But the “simple” wasn’t just a quick statement or a soundbite or a reel.

“I learned a long time ago that hockey, and life, is about teamwork. And about not just showing up but showing up with my best. I was not at my best yesterday, but I do know that I can’t change the past. I just have to . . .” He looked at his dad, then back at the crowd. “I just have to keep moving forward. I can’t change what happens to me—just what I do about it. Right, kids?”

More fist pumps.

“So, I am sorry for any hurt I caused the Bouchard family. And I look forward to showing up with my best for our amazing Blue Ox fans. Thank you.”

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