Page 122 of Cold Feet
But I did know one thing with absolute certainty: I wasn't giving up without a fight. Not on my career, not on the team, and maybe – if I could find the courage – not on Cam either.
Tomorrow, I would begin the work of rebuilding – my reputation, my career, and maybe, if I was brave enough, my heart.
And maybe, just maybe, I would go to Boston.
Chapter 22
Iwoke up to the Florida sunlight blasting me in the eyes. For the first time in days, I didn't immediately feel the crushing weight of humiliation pressing down on my chest. Instead, I felt something that had been missing since the scandal broke: determination.
My father's words echoed in my mind:Champions aren't made during the easy shifts – they're forged in the penalty kill after a five-minute major.
This was my penalty kill. And I sure as hell wasn't going to spend it hiding in Siesta Key.
I'd just finished showering when my phone rang. Coco's name flashed across the screen, and I answered while towel-drying my hair.
"Morning," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.
"You sound better," Coco observed immediately.
"Better than yesterday. Had a good talk with my parents."
"Good." There was a pause. "So, listen. Trixie wanted me to remind you that the offer stands. If you want to come to Boston, we've got you covered."
I hesitated, my eyes drifting to the sapphire on my finger. Two weeks ago, I'd been determined to keep this fake engagement strictly professional. Now, after everything that had happened, I wasn't sure what was real anymore. Except one thing: I missed Cam. And I was tired of running.
"There's a flight at noon. I can text you the details…" Coco offered.
"Do that please," I said, already mentally packing. "I'll see if I can get on it."
By the time I hung up, I'd pulled out the small duffel bag I'd hastily packed when fleeing St. Pete, dumping its contents onto the bed. One professional outfit, two casual, toiletries, phone charger. What did you pack for a public reunion with your fake fiancé after a public scandal and possible trade bombshell?
I texted the team's travel coordinator with the flight information, and headed downstairs.
My parents were having coffee on the deck, the morning sun glinting off the Gulf waters, now calm after yesterday's storm.
"I'm going to Boston," I announced, setting my bag down and pouring myself a cup of coffee.
My mother looked surprised, but pleased. "For the game tonight?"
I nodded. "Coco says the WAGs have a plan to keep me away from the press. I'll stay at the team hotel, watch the game from their box, and fly back tomorrow."
My father studied me over the rim of his coffee mug. "You sure you're ready for that?"
"No," I admitted. "But I'm not hiding anymore." I need to face this – all of it. Including Cam."
A slow smile spread across my father's face. "That's my girl."
Frank Decker wasn't one for flowery sentiments or lengthy heart-to-hearts. But in those three words, I heard everything: his pride, his support, his absolute confidence that I was making the right choice.
My mother squeezed my hand. "What can we do?"
"I'll need to drive myself to the airport so I have my car when I get back," I said, mentally calculating the timing. "Can you help me find something warmer to wear? I don't have anything for Boston in October."
Twenty minutes later, I was wearing my mother's cashmere wrap and had a ticket booked on the noon flight to Boston. As I hugged my parents goodbye, my father held on a second longer than usual.
"Lana," he said, his voice gruff with emotion, "whatever happens in Boston, remember what I said. You belong in hockey. Not because you're my daughter, but because you've earned it."
I blinked back sudden tears and nodded against his shoulder. "Thanks, Dad."
