Page 113 of Hooked On Them

I scrolled through comments, each one making my blood pressure tick higher. Most were theorizing about the timeline of our relationship, and a disturbing number were questioning Nora’s integrity.

I ran my hand over my face, feeling the overgrown stubble I hadn’t bothered to trim. “I should’ve seen this coming. He’s always waited until the biggest moments before striking. It’s like he took months of all that pent-up rage from me ignoring him and rolled it into one.”

Carter leaned forward, his expensive suit jacket pulling tight across his shoulders as he braced his forearms on the desk. The sincerity in his expression caught me off guard. “You did the right thing cutting him out of your life.” There was something steadying about hearing it from him.

“I know.” It had taken a while, but once I’d blocked him on all my social media and phone, it was like I’d emerged a new man.

“You better get your game face on.” Carter nodded toward the hallway where Kessler’s assistant was power-walking toward us.

“Gentlemen. They’re waiting for you in the conference room.” Her expression was grave, like she was escorting us to our own execution.

The walk down the hall felt like trudging through knee-deep snow with weights on my ankles, but by the time we reached our destination, my resolve had hardened into something dangerous. I wasn’t about to let my father ruin everything I’d built.

The conference table was already surrounded. Kessler was at the head, and Coach Lovell was to his right, looking like he’d aged five years overnight. Across from him sat Theresa from PR, dark circles under her eyes as she typed furiously on her laptop. Two executives I only vaguely recognized rounded out the table.

“Wilson. Campbell. Sit.” Kessler gestured to the empty chairs. “We have a lot to discuss.”

I sank into the nearest chair, and Carter dropped into the seat beside me, his knee pressed against mine in silent support. Somehow, that small bit of familiarity helped steady my racing thoughts.

“I’m assuming you’ve seen the interview.” Kessler folded his hands on the table.

“Yes, sir.” I’d watched it about ten times, which I knew wasn’t healthy but was necessary to remind myself how important it was for me and my family that I not cower.

Theresa cleared her throat. “The story’s been picked up by every major sports outlet. We’re getting requests for statements from ESPN, The Athletic, TSN, and the list goes on.”

“What did your father hope to accomplish with this?” Kessler stared directly at me. He’d been more than accommodating when we’d come forward about our relationship, but his face now was not reassuring.

I looked over at Carter, who gave me a nod of reassurance. “As you know, my father had quite the reputation as a player, and that extended off the ice at home. Not just when I was younger, but also throughout my career, up until December.”

The admission tasted bitter on my tongue. I’d spent months carefully constructing walls only to have him try to demolish everything with one calculated interview. It wasn’t only bitterness I tasted but the familiar aftertaste of disappointment that always lingered after any interaction with a man who’d perfected the art of emotional sabotage before I could even skate.

“And what happened in December?” Lovell prompted.

“I woke up.” I looked around the table. “I cut him out of my life. As for why he’s doing this now? Who the hell knows? His name never got put on the Cup, and now he’s probably angry that he hasn’t played a part in my success this season.”

The table was silent for a solid minute, the kind of oppressive quiet that reminded me of those long, awful dinners at home where one wrong word could set my father off. I studied the grain of the wood, tracing invisible patterns with my eyes while fighting the urge to fill the void with explanations or excuses.

Carter’s knee was still pressed against mine, and I focused on that small point of contact like an anchor keeping me from drifting into old, destructive patterns. I was better than that now.

“He’s created quite the mess.” Kessler turned to Theresa. “What’s our strategy?”

She straightened, switching to presentation mode. “We’ve drafted a statement denying any impropriety within the organization. We acknowledge that there are personal relationships but stress that all parties have conducted themselves professionally. We emphasize that the team stands behind both Dominic and Nora and categorically deny any sharing of information across teams.”

“Sounds very corporate.” Carter’s voice held an edge that I rarely heard.

“It’s non-inflammatory and refocuses attention on the Finals, which is where it should be,” Theresa countered.

My mind drifted as they debated wording. I thought of Nora last night and how she’d tried to comfortmeeven while she was the one being slandered. How our daughter had kicked against my palm when I placed it on Nora’s stomach, like she was telling me to get my shit together and fix this.

“Wilson?” Lovell’s voice snapped me back to the room. “You with us?”

“I want to do a press conference.” I’d already decided what I wanted, and the organization could either support me or not. “Live. Today.”

The room fell silent for the second time.

“That’s not advisable,” Theresa said carefully. “A written statement gives us control.”

“My father accused the mother of my child of sabotaging the Stanley Cup Finals. A press release isn’t going to cut it.” I leaned forward. “I want cameras. I want it on record. And I want to do it before Game Two.”

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