Page 124 of Cold Feet
"They're on your side," Coco assured me, swiping her key card and opening the door to a spacious room with two queen beds. "Trust me. Trixie has declared you under WAG protection, and no one messes with Trixie."
I set my bag down and sank onto the edge of the bed. "I don't even know what I'm doing here, Coco. What am I supposed to say to Cam?Sorry I freaked out and ran away after we slept together and then you dropped a trade bomb on me?"
"Maybe start with 'hello' and see where it goes?" Coco suggested, sitting beside me. "Look, I'm not saying it's going to be easy. But you're here. That's a start."
I nodded, twisting the sapphire ring on my finger. "What is Logan saying about the Montreal offer?"
Coco said carefully. "Everybody knows now. It's been... tense."
Before I could ask more, there was a knock at the door. Coco jumped up to answer it, revealing a stunning woman in her early fifties with meticulously highlighted blonde hair and a Slashers-blue manicure that matched her silk blouse.
"There she is!" she exclaimed, sweeping into the room with the confidence of someone used to commanding attention. She headed straight for me, hands outstretched. "Lana, sweetheart. I'm so glad you're here. Sully's just been beside himself over all this mess."
I stood to greet her, momentarily overwhelmed by her perfume and presence. "Trixie, thank you for arranging all this. I really appreciate… "
"It's the least I could do." She grasped my hands in hers, her expression softening. "Sully told me everything. That poor excuse for a journalist who leaked your story should be thrown into the penalty box for life."
Despite everything, I found myself smiling at her indignation. Coach Sully was known for his stoic demeanor; Trixie was his opposite in every way. Kind of like my parents, the original grumpy-sunshine combo.
"Now," Trixie continued, giving my hands a final squeeze before releasing them, "we have a full WAG protection plan in place. You'll stay with us in the private box. No press, no photographers, no nosy fans. Just us girls supporting our men."
The fact that she included me in this collective, that she saw me as one of them despite the circumstances, brought an unexpected lump to my throat.
"Thank you," I managed.
"Of course, dear. Now come along, the others are waiting in my suite. We need to get you properly outfitted for tonight."
I glanced at Coco, who shrugged with a smile that said,Just go with it.
Trixie's suite was twice the size of ours and filled with women in various stages of game-day preparation. Some I recognized from team events or games: Shayna, the veteran defenseman's wife; Marcy DeLuca, always the life of the party, and others I'd only seen in passing. All conversation stopped when we entered. For a moment, I felt like I was back in high school, the new girl stepping into the cafeteria. Sure, I knew them all. Just not in this new context.
Then Shayna broke the silence. "There she is! Our PR queen!" She crossed the room to give me a warm hug. "We've been worried about you."
"It's been a rough couple of days," I admitted.
"Girl, we saw," Marcy said, raising a champagne flute. "Those assholes on Twitter or X or whatever they're calling it don't know what they're talking about. We're Team Lana all the way."
The knot in my chest loosened slightly as other women nodded in agreement. They'd seen the worst of the scandal, and they were still welcoming me with open arms.
"Now," Trixie said, clapping her hands to get everyone's attention, "we have a game to prepare for. Let's get Lana dolled up, and we need to go over the security plan."
What followed was a whirlwind of activity. Shayna produced a brand-new Slashers jersey – Cam's number, of course – that justhappenedto be in my size. Marcy, a former Miss Pennsylvania, insisted on doing my makeup ("Just enough to look good on camera if they spot you, honey"). Trixie outlined her elaborate CIA-level plan for getting me into and out of the arena without being noticed by the press.
It was overwhelming, this instant circle of protection and solidarity. These women barely knew me, yet they'd mobilized like an elite tactical unit to ensure my comfort and safety.
"You know," Shayna said as she helped me adjust the jersey, "your mom was the original WAG queen back in her day."
I looked at her in surprise. "She was?"
"Oh, honey, Diana Decker literally wrote the handbook," Trixie chimed in. "Not an actual book, mind you, but we all learned from watching her. The way she balanced family and the spotlight, protected you kids, supported Frank without losing herself. She was legendary."
I blinked, seeing my mother in a new light. I'd always known she was respected in hockey circles, but I'd never fully appreciated her role in this parallel universe of the sport. The thought that I might be following in her footsteps – not just as Frank Decker's daughter but asa woman navigating the complex world of hockey relationships – was strangely comforting.
“She is legendary,” I nodded.
As game time approached, the energy in the suite shifted from social to focused. The veterans explained the rituals and superstitions to me:
