Page 64 of The Dating Coach
"Public displays of what?" I asked, though I knew exactly what he meant. "Supporting people I care about? Standing up to abusive parents? Being a decent human being?"
"Being associated with controversy," he corrected coldly. "Teams don't want drama, Liam. They want players who keep their heads down and produce."
"Then maybe I'm not the player they want," I said simply.
The silence stretched so long I wondered if he'd hung up. Finally: "I'm coming to campus. We need to discuss damage control. I'm bringing Bradley."
Bradley – PR consultant to hockey's elite, master of spinning scandals into redemption narratives. The fact that my father thought we needed him said everything about how he viewed the situation.
"Don't bother," I said. "There's no damage to control."
"Your draft stock—"
"Can plummet for all I care," I interrupted. "If teams don't want me because I support LGBTQ+ rights, then I don't want them either."
"You naive child," he spat. "You think principles pay bills? Especially when you're struggling to make ends meet because you threw away millions for a gesture?"
"It wasn't a gesture," I said firmly. "It was the right thing to do."
"I'll be there in three hours," he said, ignoring my response. "Bradley has strategies. We can spin this as youthful solidarity, distance you from the controversy—"
"I'm not distancing myself from anything," I said clearly. "Come if you want, but I won't be here. I have a life to live that doesn't revolve around your approval."
I hung up before he could respond, immediately blocking his number. Childish? Maybe. Necessary? Absolutely.
"That sounded fun," Frank said, entering with a stack of newspapers. "Speaking of fun, we made the news!"
He spread out the campus paper, the local news, even a mention in the Boston Globe's college sports section. "Hockey Team Stands Up to Homophobia" was the general theme, though some outlets focused more on the "draft prospect risks career" angle.
"Coach wants to see you," Henry said quietly. "Soon as possible."
I made my way across campus to Coach Jack’s office. He sat behind his desk, arms folded, face unreadable—and motioned for me to take a seat.
"Hell of a thing yesterday," he said finally. "That video's making rounds in athletic departments across the country."
"I don't regret it," I said immediately.
"Didn't say you should." He leaned back, studying me. "You know what this means though? The attention it brings?"
"Some teams won't want me," I said. "My father made that clear."
"Some teams are run by dinosaurs," Coach corrected. "Others will see a leader who protects his people. Question is – which do you want to play for?"
The simple reframing hit hard. I'd been so focused on what I might lose, I hadn't considered what I might gain.
"I had a call this morning," Coach continued. "From Montreal. They were impressed by the video. Said it showed character they want in their organization."
"Montreal?" I blinked. "But they weren't even scouting me."
"They are now." He smiled slightly. "Funny how standing up for what's right sometimes opens doors instead of closing them. Not always, mind you. But sometimes."
"My father's coming with a PR consultant," I admitted. "Wants to do damage control."
Coach snorted. "Only damage I see is to his ego. You did right, son. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise."
I left his office feeling lighter, but that weight returned when I found Gemma at the pool. She was swimming laps with mechanical precision, the way she did when anxiety threatened to overwhelm her.
I waited until she finished, handing her a towel as she emerged. "Your stroke's off. You're fighting the water."
