Page 146 of Cold Feet
I nodded, shifting into work mode. "Let's prioritize hockey press for today.ESPN,The Athletic,Hockey Night. We'll consider the lifestyle angles next week after we've seen how tonight's game coverage goes."
Katie made notes, then glanced up with a sly smile. "Oh, and that package you ordered arrived. I put it in your office."
The package – the special surprise I had planned for tonight. "Perfect. Thank you."
My office felt like a haven of calm amid the pre-game chaos. I took a moment to center myself, going through my game-day checklist with practiced efficiency. Press box arrangements confirmed. VIP accommodations for special guests arranged. Social media monitoring rolling.
A knock at my door interrupted my rhythm. I looked up to see Coach Sully standing there, his imposing figure filling the doorframe.
"Got a minute, Decker?"
"Of course, Coach." I gestured to the chair across from my desk.
He sat, his expression unreadable. "Quite a week you've had."
I nodded, unsure where this was going. "It's been... eventful."
"That's one word for it." He leaned forward slightly. "I've been coaching a long time, Lana. Seen every kind of drama, distraction, and disaster you can imagine. What happened this past week could have torn this team apart."
I tensed, bracing for criticism. "I understand, and I – "
He held up a hand. "Let me finish. It could have torn this team apart, but instead, it's brought us closer. The way you handled the press conference, the way Murphy stepped up, the way the team rallied around you both – I haven't seen this kind of unity outside a Cup run."
Relief flooded through me. "Thank you, Coach."
"Don't thank me. You earnedit." He stood, straightening his Slashers tie. "And for what it's worth, I've never seen Murphy play better than he has in practice this week. Whatever you two have, it's good for him. Good for the team."
After Coach left, I sat for a moment, absorbing his words. Then I reached for the package Katie had mentioned – a flat, square box delivered from a custom t-shirt shop in downtown St. Pete. Inside was exactly what I'd ordered: a simple black t-shirt with "PUCK DADDY" emblazoned across the chest in the Slashers' teal and white.
It was ridiculous. Completely unprofessional. The exact kind of thing the old Lana would never have considered wearing to a game.
I tucked it into my bag with a smile.
On my way to the arena floor, I ran into Logan, who gave me a warm smile.
"Hey, PR guru," he said, already in his warm-up gear. "Team's buzzing about Cam staying. Hometown discount and everything."
"He loves it here," I said simply.
"He loves you here," Logan corrected with a knowing look. "But we'll take it either way. The Slashers are a family, and you're both part of it."
By game time, the arena was electric. Every seat filled, the crowd a sea of teal and black, buzzing with anticipation. I took my usual spot behind the bench, clipboard in hand, mermaid sapphire ring catching the arena lights every time I moved.
The Penguins were a formidable opponent, currently leading our division by a slim margin. Their enforcer-turned-scorer, Mike "the Vike" Bracken, had been featured on the cover of last week's Sports Illustrated, much to our marketing department's chagrin.
I spotted Cam during warm-ups, his golden-brown hair visible beneath his helmet as he circled the ice with familiar grace. My eyes found him instantly – my number 22, moving with purpose, focused and intent.
When the teams lined up for the national anthem, Cam glanced over to where I stood. Even from this distance, I could see his smile. I touched the sapphire ring, our private signal. His smile widened before he turned his attention back to the ice.
The first period was fast and physical, Pittsburgh dominating early. Mike "The Vike" lived up to his reputation, scoring on a breakaway that left our defense looking flat-footed. As he glided past the Slashers' bench, he struck his hockey stick against the boards, his thick auburn beard billowing with the motion.
"Tell your captain to keep his head up tonight," he called to Cam with a smirk.
Cam just gave him an easy smile – the kind that used to make me nervous because it usually preceded him throwing a punch. But tonight, he simply nodded and said something I couldn't hear.
"I swear to God," said Reaper to no one in particular. "I'd give up a year of playing professionally if I could have that glorious fucking beard."
The Slashers fought back, with Logan netting a power-play goal to tie it up, only for Pittsburgh to score again in the final minute of the period.
