Page 117 of Cold Feet
@PuckLife365: Ten years covering hockey and I've never seen anything this cynical. Fans deserve better than manufactured relationships. #FakeSlashers
@SlashersSuperFan: My daughter looked up to @LanaDecker as a woman succeeding in hockey. What lesson is she learning now? That lying is how women get ahead? Disgusted. #FakeSlashers
I closed the laptop with more force than necessary, unable to stomach any more. The resignation letter could wait. Everything could wait. Right now, I just needed to breathe without feeling like I was drowning.
A soft knock at the door interrupted my spiral. "Lana?" My mother's voice was gentle. "Lunch is ready if you're hungry. We're eating on the deck."
"I'll be right down," I called back, quickly wiping away the tears I hadn't realized kept falling. "Just finishing up something for work."
"Take your time, sweetheart."
I heard her footsteps retreat down the hallway, and I took a moment to compose myself, splashing cold water on my face in the bathroom and taking several deep breaths. I could do this. I could get through lunch with my parents without falling apart. I'd faced down hostile press conferences and locker rooms full of agitated hockey players. I could handle a family meal.
The deck was my mother's pride and joy – weathered wood whitewashed to a soft gray, decorated with potted plants and comfortable furniture that invited lingering. Usually, the view of the Gulf wasenough to soothe any troubled mind, but today even the expanse of water stretching to the horizon couldn't calm the storm inside me.
My parents had set lunch at the small table in the corner, a simple spread of sandwiches, fruit, and iced tea. They both looked up as I approached, their smiles warm but cautious.
"There she is," my father said, pulling out a chair for me. "Just in time. Your mother made those crab salad sandwiches you like."
"Thanks, Mom," I said, settling into the seat. "It looks great."
An awkward silence fell as we began eating, the only sounds the clink of glasses and the distant cry of seagulls. I could feel my parents exchanging glances over my head, silently debating who would broach the subject first and how.
"The weather's supposed to clear up this afternoon," my mother finally offered. "Might be nice for a walk on the beach."
"Maybe," I said noncommittally, picking at my sandwich.
Another silence stretched between us.
"Zayne called," my father said suddenly, his voice carefully neutral. "Wanted to know if you'd arrived safely."
I looked up, surprised. "You talked to Zayne?"
My father nodded. "He's worried about you. Said you weren't answering your phone."
"I turned off notifications," I admitted. "It was... a lot."
My mother reached across the table, her hand covering mine. "We've seen the news, sweetheart. It looks like quite a mess."
The simple acknowledgment – and the complete lack of judgment in her tone – nearly undid me. I swallowed hard against the lump forming in my throat.
"It is," I managed. "It's pretty bad."
"Do you want to talk about it?" my father asked, his gruff voice gentler than usual.
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak without breaking down completely. "Not yet. I'm still... processing."
They accepted this with nods, not pushing, and the conversation shifted to safer topics – my mother's garden, a fishing tournament my father was helping judge next month, mundane details of their daily lives that had nothing to do with hockey or scandals or broken hearts.
I tried to participate, to nod and smile in the right places, but I could feel myself fraying at the edges, the careful composure I'd maintained since arriving starting to unravel thread by thread. By the time lunch was finished, I was hanging on by the thinnest of margins.
"I think I'll go forthat walk now," I said abruptly, standing up. "Clear my head a bit."
"Of course," my mother said, though concern flickered in her eyes. "Take all the time you need."
I made it as far as the steps leading down to the beach before the first sob escaped, a harsh sound that seemed to tear from somewhere deep inside me. I sank down onto the weathered wood, burying my face in my hands as the tears I'd been holding back finally broke free.
I cried for my career, for the reputation I'd spent years building, now in ruins. I cried for the team that had become my family, for the players and staff who might never look at me the same way again. I cried for Cam, for what might have been if we'd both been honest from the beginning. And I cried for myself, for the walls I'd built so high that I couldn't see over them until it was too late.
