Page 123 of Cold Feet
"And tell Cam – " he hesitated, then shook his head with a small smile. "Never mind. You'll figure it out."
The drive to Tampa International gave me too much time to think. What was I doing? Flying across the country to surprise a man who might be leaving the team – leaving me – for Montreal? What would I even say to him? Sorry I ran away? Sorry I didn't trust you? SorryI've been pushing you away for years because I've been afraid of my feelings since that night in college?
All of the above, probably.
The Tampa airport was mercifully free of journalists, though I kept my sunglasses on and a baseball cap pulled low just in case. As I settled into my window seat on the plane, I pulled out my phone to text Coco.
ME: On the noon flight to Boston. Landing at 3:15.
Her reply was immediate.
COCO: Yay! I'll have a car waiting for you under my name. Trixie's got everything arranged. We're staying at the Four Seasons with the team. She's put you in my room so no one sees your name on the hotel register.
ME: Does Cam know I'm coming?
There was a longer pause before her response.
COCO: No. Logan doesn't even know. Thought it might be better as a surprise. Less pressure on everyone.
ME: Good call. Thanks for being such a good friend. See you soon.
I put my phone in airplane mode and leaned back, watching Florida disappear beneath the clouds. Three hours to Boston. Three hours to figure out what I was going to say to Cam when I saw him again.
The flight passed in a blur of half-formed speeches and aborted text drafts. None of them seemed right. How do you distill ten years of misunderstandings, weeks of pretending, and days of heartbreak into words that make sense?
By the time we landed at Logan International, I still had no idea.
The blast of cold air that hit me as I exited the terminal was a shock after Florida's perpetual warmth. I pulled my mother's wrap tighter around me, grateful for it but already regretting not bringing proper winter gear. Boston in October was a different planet from Siesta Key.
A sleek black SUV idled at the curb, with a small sign affixed to the passenger window that read "Coco Charmant."
I knocked lightly on the window, and the driver quickly stepped out to greet me.
"Car for Ms. Charmant? I'm Peter, with the Four Seasons."
"Thank you," I said, handing him my small overnight bag.
As we drove through Boston's narrow streets, memories surfaced from our time at Boston University, where all of this with Cam had first begun.
My father had brought me to the old Boston Garden when I was nine – my first road game. I remember being mesmerized by the history in those walls, the banners hanging from the rafters, the way my dad was treated like royalty even in an opposing team's arena. Hockey royalty transcended team colors, he'd told me. The respect was for the game first, the rivalry second.
I wondered if that same respect would extend to a PR director caught in a scandal of her own making.Probably not.
The Four Seasons Boston was elegant and discreet, its lobby mercifully free of hockey fans or media. The concierge directed me to a private elevator that would take me directly to the floor where the team was staying. "Ms. Charmant is expecting you," he said with a polite smile.
Coco was waiting when the elevator doors opened, practically bouncing with excitement. She pulled me into a fierce hug.
"You're here!" she exclaimed. "I was worried you'd chicken out."
"Me too," I admitted, returning her embrace. "Thanks for arranging everything."
"Oh, I can't take credit for that. It's all Trixie. She's gone full mama bear mode over this whole situation." Coco took my bag and led me down the hallway. "The team's at pre-game meetings right now, so the coast is clear. We have about an hour before Trixie wants us all to meet in her suite."
"All?" I asked, a new wave of anxiety washing over me.
Coco grinned. "The WAGs are very excited to meet you. Especially after everything that's happened."
"Great," I muttered. "Nothing like meeting your fake fiancé's teammates' wives and girlfriends in the middle of a PR disaster."
