Page 125 of Cold Feet
no one changed seats once the game started
no one said the word "win" until the final buzzer
Shayna always wore her husband's college ring on a chain
Marcy had special game-day earrings.
I watched, fascinated by this parallel world of hockey that existed alongside the one I'd always known. My father had been a player and coach, my brothers were players, but I'd rarely been privy to this side of the sport: the wives and girlfriends who formed their own team off the ice.
"What about you?" Shayna asked, nodding at the sapphire on my finger. "Any superstitions yet?"
I hesitated. "I... I don't really have any. This is all new to me."
"The relationship or the WAG life?" Marcy asked bluntly.
"Both, I guess." It wasn't entirely true. My feelings for Cam were anything but new, but explaining the complexity of our situation wasn't something I was ready to do.
Trixie shot Marcy a warning look, but I appreciated the directness. No need to pretend with these women; they'd seen the headlines.
"You might need a quick refresher on your hockey history, Marcy," said Trixie, "Lana's mom is Diana Decker."
"OMG! I totally forgot!" laughed Marcy. "Too many pre-game cocktails, apparently. You'll be fine, Lana," she said, patting my arm reassuringly. "You learned from the best."
"Okay," Trixie said, checking her watch, "it's time. Cars are waiting downstairs. Remember the plan: we go in through the service entrance, straight to the elevator, directly to the box. No stopping, no talking to press."
The journey to TD Garden was a carefully choreographed operation. Two black SUVs, drivers who knew exactly where to go to avoid the main entrances, security personnel who guided us through service corridors and freight elevators. I felt like I was in a spy movie, being smuggled into enemy territory. If I'd been planning this PR maneuver for a player, I would have been impressed with myself.
The WAGs box was on a premium level, high above the ice but with clear sightlines to the action. Plush seats, a private bar, and waitstaff ready to bring anything we needed. Trixie directed the seating arrangements with military precision: me in the center, surrounded by her, Coco, Shayna, and Marcy, forming a sparkly human shield against prying eyes and press.
"Great," she declared once we were all settled. "Now we wait."
From a PR standpoint (which I couldn't seem to turn off, even when I wanted to), it occurred to me that the optics were spectacular. Even if the cameras did find me, I would be seen surrounded and supported by the player wives in a very exclusive clique – communicating "I'm not hiding, I'm right here front and center," without me actually being vulnerable or accessible to the press. It was kind of genius.
As the arena filled below us, I couldn't help scanning the crowd, looking for familiar faces from the media. Hockey journalists I'd worked with for years were now potential threats. What a difference a few days made.
The teams took the ice for warm-ups, and my heart stuttered when I spotted Cam. Even from this distance, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the mechanical way he went through his routine. He looked... off. Not the fluid, confident player I was used to watching.
"He's been like that since the story broke," Coco murmured beside me. "Logan says he's barely said two words since they arrived in Boston."
I twisted the ring onmy finger, a twinge of guilt squeezing my chest. Had I done that to him? The confident, laughing man who'd shared a bed with me just days ago, reduced to this tense, silent shadow?
The first period was painful to watch. The Bruins came out aggressive, testing our goalie Nick Fosse early and often. Cam seemed a step behind every play, missing passes, losing puck battles he'd normally win easily. When Boston scored midway through the period, the home crowd erupted.
"It's okay," Shayna said, noticing my grimace. "First period is always rough in this building."
