Page 116 of Cold Feet
I grabbed my bag and stepped out into the light rain, forcing a smile that felt brittle on my face.
"Hey," I said, climbing the steps to the porch. "Thanks for letting me crash here."
"You never need permission to come home, Lana," my mother said, pulling me into a hug that smelled of sea salt and her gardening herbs. "We're always happy to see you."
My father's embrace was briefer but no less genuine. "You look like you could use some coffee," he observed, his keen eyes taking in what I was sure were the dark circles under my eyes and the strain in my smile.
"Coffee would be great," I agreed, following them inside.
The house was exactly as it was a few days ago: the same comfy furniture, the same family photos lining the walls, the same scent of salt air and my mother's lavender candles. But everything felt different now. The happiness I'd felt here with Cam had been built on a foundation that was now crumbling beneath us.
My mother gestured toward the stairs, "Why don't you get settled while I make that coffee?"
I nodded gratefully, relieved for a moment alone to compose myself. As I climbed the familiar stairs, my hand trailing along the banister worn smooth by decades of Decker hands, I braced myself for what awaited me at the top.
My childhood bedroom – the same one Cam and I had shared just days ago. The room where we'd talked into the night, where I'd woken in his arms, where something that had started as pretense had begun to feel real.
I pushed open the door and was immediately assaulted by memories. The king-sized bed where Cam had slept beside me, his breathing a steady rhythm in the darkness. The window seat where I'd watched him sleep in the early morning light, confused by the tenderness that had welled up inside me. The gauzy curtains that had billowed in the sea breeze as we'd navigated the awkward morning-after of our midnight confessions.
I dropped my bag on the floor and sank onto the edge of the bed, finally allowing myself a moment of complete honesty. I missed him. Despite everything – Montreal, the scandal, the hurt – I missed Cam with an ache that permeated every part of my body.
Because I'd spent years building walls around my heart, years convincing myself that what I felt for Cam was nothing more than lingering resentment over a college hookup gone wrong. Years telling myself that men like Cameron Murphy – heartfelt, charming, gorgeous, universally adored – were exactly the kind I needed to avoid.
Yet here I was, heart shattered by the very man I'd sworn would never touch it again.
With a deep breath, I pulled out my laptop and opened it, determined to at least attempt to do some work. I had a crisis to manage, after all – even if I was at the center of it.
My mom brought me a mug of steaming coffee and set it on the edge of the small desk. "It will all be okay," she said, giving my shoulder a loving squeeze. "You'll see."
For the next hour, I drafted contingency plans, potential statements, and media strategies. I analyzed every angle of the scandal, every possible approach to damage control. I worked methodically, professionally, as if I were handling a crisis for someone else entirely.
And then, in a separate document, I began drafting my resignation letter.
To Marcus Thompson and the St. Petersburg Slashers Organization,
Please accept this letter as formal notification of my resignation from the position of Director of Public Relations, effective immediately.
In light of recent events, I believe it is in the best interest of the organization that I step down. My actions, regardless of intent, have created a situation that compromises both my professional credibility and the team's public image.
It has been my privilege to serve this organization.
I cried as I stared at the words on the screen, the cursor blinking accusingly at me. Was this really how my career with the Slashers would end? A decade of dedication, of breaking barriers, reduced to a scandal and a resignation letter?
But what choice did I have? The team couldn't keep me on after this. Not when #FireLanaDecker was trending on socials. Not when sports commentators were dissecting my "manipulation" of Cam for clicks and views. Not when my inbox was flooded with messages from other PR directors in the league, a mix of sympathy and, in rare cases, barely concealed schadenfreude.
My phone buzzed witha text, and I reluctantly checked it.
KATIE:
Marcus says take all the time you need. And if it helps, the team staff has started a counter-hashtag: #WeStandWithLana
I smiled weakly at their loyalty, but couldn't bring myself to respond. What would I even say?
Thanks, but I've ruined my career, humiliated myself, and possibly lost the man I'm in love with – all because I couldn't admit how I really felt until it was too late.
Instead, I opened Instagram, TikTok, and X – a masochistic impulse I couldn't resist. The hashtag was still trending, the comments a mix of outrage, mockery, and armchair analysis of my professional ethics. I scrolled numbly, each tweet another punch to my already battered self-esteem.
@HockeyFanatic55:PR director creates fake love story to save a sponsorship deal? And we're supposed to believe anything from the Slashers organization now? #FakeSlashers
