Page 120 of Cold Feet
My father cleared his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable with the emotional turn of the conversation but determined to see it through. "You're a Decker," he said gruffly. "We don't back down from challenges. We face them head-on."
A memory surfaced – my father saying those exact words to me when I was twelve, nervous before my first public speaking competition. I'd won first place that day, surprising everyone but him. He'd simply nodded, as if he'd expected nothing less.
"What would you tellone of your players right now?" he asked, shifting into coaching mode. "If they came to you in this situation, what would you say?"
I considered the question, forcing myself to think as the PR director rather than the woman in the middle of the storm. "I'd tell them... that people are more forgiving than you expect. That one mistake doesn't define a career. That the best response to a setback is to come back stronger."
My father nodded approvingly. "Sounds like good advice to me."
For the first time in days, I felt something other than despair – a small spark of determination, of the fighting spirit that had carried me through countless challenges in my career. Maybe I couldn't control what happened with Cam or the scandal, but I could control how I responded to it.
"I'm not going to resign," I said, the decision crystallizing as I spoke the words. "I'm going to fight this. Fix it."
The pride in my parents' eyes was worth more than any championship ring.
"That's my girl," my father said, satisfaction evident in his voice.
My mother squeezed my hand. "And what about Cam?" she asked gently.
Did I love him? Yes, I could admit that now, at least to myself. But was love enough to overcome everything else – the scandal, the potential trade, the years of misunderstandings?
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "I need to figure out how to fix the PR disaster first. Then I'll figure out the Cam situation."
My father nodded, accepting this prioritization as sensible. My mother looked less convinced but didn't push.
"One step at a time," she agreed, setting a fresh mug of coffee before me. "But don't wait too long, Lana. Some opportunities don't come around twice. Well, thrice."
I knew she wasn't just talking about Cam now, but about life in general – about seizing chances, about being brave enough to reach for what you want.
After dinner, I retreated to my room, emotionally drained but somehow lighter than I'd been in the last 24 hours. The conversation with my parents had been a revelation in more ways than one: not just their support for my career, but their insight into my feelings for Cam, feelings I'd been denying even to myself.
I sat at the small desk by the window, looking out at the Gulf waters now turned silver in the moonlight. The storm had passed, leaving a clear night sky scattered with stars. It felt like an omen, though whether good or bad remained to be seen.
My laptop sat open before me, the resignation letter still on the screen, the cursor blinking at the end of a sentence I would never complete. With a decisive click, I deleted the entire document, watching with satisfaction as the words disappeared.
In their place, I opened a new document and began typing:
Crisis Management Plan
Step 1: Address the narrative head-on. No hiding, no deflecting.
Step 2: Correct factual inaccuracies in reporting, discredit source if found
Step 3: Acknowledge the arrangement without apology – NDAs are standard practice.
Step 4: Emphasize that no official statements claiming "engagement" were ever made.
Step 5: Focus on moving forward, not looking back.
It was just a start, but it felt good to be thinking strategically again, to be doing what I did best – managing difficult situations, crafting narratives, finding the path through the storm.
My phone rang, startling me out of my focus. I glanced at the screen, expecting another reporter or perhaps Marcus checking in. Instead, Coco's name flashed on the display.
I hesitated, my finger hovering over the answer button. Part of me wanted to continue avoiding the world, but Coco had been nothing but supportive, and I owed her at least the courtesy of picking up.
"Hey," I answered, my voice still rough from crying all afternoon.
"Lana," Coco's relief was audible. "Thank god. I've been worried sick about you."
