Page 118 of Cold Feet
I don't know how long I sat there, shoulders shaking with silent sobs, before I felt a presence beside me. My father lowered himself onto the step, his knees cracking slightly with the movement, and simply sat in silence, offering the steady comfort of his presence without words.
After a while, my sobs subsided into hiccuping breaths. I wiped at my face with the back of my hand, embarrassed by the breakdown.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "I didn't mean to – "
"Don't apologize for your feelings, Lana," my father interrupted, his voice firm but kind. "Never apologize for that."
Coming from Frank Decker, a man known for his stoic demeanor both on and off the ice, the words hit with unexpected force. I looked at him, really looked, and saw not disappointment or judgment but deep concern and unconditional love.
"I've made such a mess, Dad," I whispered. "Everything I've worked for... it's all falling apart."
He was quiet for a moment, his gaze on the horizon. "Your mother and I think it might help if you came inside," he finally said. "There are some things we should talk about. As a family."
The gentle insistence in his tone left no room for argument. I nodded, allowing him to help me to my feet, and followed him back into the house, where my mother was waiting in the kitchen, a pot of fresh coffee brewing and a box of tissues already on the table.
The kitchen table. The heart of our family home. Where I'd first learned about hockey, where my brothers and I had done homework under our mother's watchful eye, where we'd celebrated victories and processed defeats. Where my father had taught us about the game using salt shakers as goals or players and an ancient red poker chip emblazoned with "Stardust Hotel" as the puck.
I sat down heavily, accepting the mug of coffee my mother placed before me, the familiar ritual somehow grounding in the midst of chaos.
"I don't know where to start," I admitted, my voice hoarse from crying.
"The beginning is usually good," my mother suggested gently, settling into the chair across from me. "Or wherever feels right to you."
I took a deep breath, then another, gathering the fragments of my courage. And then, haltingly at first but with increasing momentum, I told them everything.
About the night in college when Cam and I had first met, the connection that had seemed so real, the hurt when he'd disappeared without a word. About working with Cam these past years, maintaining a professional distance while nursing a private resentment. About the image we'd created for him: the playboy, the heartbreaker. And how it had come back to haunt us both when the Redline deal was at stake.
I told them about the fake engagement, the careful rules we'd established, the NDAs everyone had signed. About how coming here to Siesta Key with him blurred the boundaries we'd established, the feelings that had emerged despite my best efforts to keep them contained.
And finally, about the leak, the scandal, the public humiliation, and the trade offer that might take Cam to Montreal – away from the team, away from me.
"I know I should have told you the truth when we were here," I finished, staring into my now-cold coffee. "But we couldn't violate the NDA. I was afraid of disappointing you. Of you thinking I was unprofessional or... or desperate."
My mother reached across the table, her hand finding mine. "Oh, Lana, honey," she said softly. "We already knew."
I looked up, startled. "What?"
"Zayne told us," my father explained. "Last Sunday, before he left. Said he knew you'd tell us if you could, and he couldn't bear watching you two have to pretend anymore, not with family."
I blinked, trying to process this information. "Zayne told you? But he promised – "
"He didn't break your confidence lightly," my mother assured me. "But he said he'd never seen Cam look at anyone the way he looks at you. That his belief that the relationship wasn't real at first had actually helped him to see how right you two were for each other. He loves you bothand was so worried about both of you getting hurt if the truth came to light before you figured out your feelings for each other."
Stupid, brilliant, overprotective Zayne.
"But if you knew it was fake," I said slowly, "why did you keep calling Cam your future son-in-law? Why did you come to opening night to support him with the Redline people?"
My mother smiled, a touch of mischief in her eyes. "Because we could see what you couldn't, sweetheart. That there was nothing fake about the way you two feel about each other. Also, don't forget…Nana proclaimed you're a perfect match."
"Mom… " I sighed.
"Cam's the most promising candidate you've ever brought home," my father interjected, his tone matter-of-fact. "Your mother and I have a good eye for these things. We recognize the real thing when we see it."
"This isn't the draft, Dad," I protested weakly. "You can't just scout my love life and declare a top pick."
"Watch me," he smiled with a hint of his trademark stubbornness. "Cam's my number one draft pick for Team Decker." His expression softened. "Lana, we've been watching you and Cam both mooning over each other when you thought nobody was looking since you and the boys were in college."
My mother finished his thought, "...even when you were pretending to ignore him. We just figured you two had finally gotten out of your own way."
