Sean looked caught off guard, then recovered smoothly.
“She’s been the best thing to happen to me this season. The photo was meant for fun, but like a lot of good things, it might mean more.”
I stared at the screen, eyes stinging slightly. Did that mean he wanted to marry me someday? Before I could spiral further, another reporter chimed in—
“Coach Murphy, this playoff run is a historic moment, not only for the team, but for your family as well. In the spirit of resilience, how do you think your father’s journey in rehab has shaped the fighter we see leading this team today?”
The press room fell silent.
My gut tightened. Oh no.
Sean’s expression froze. Dane and the two players turned to him, visibly startled more by the question’s audacity than the story behind it. My mind flashed back to Brent leaning over his seat weeks ago on the plane, tossing out, “You’ve been dodging the booze circuit since forever.” At the time, I’d laughed. Now I knew, they knew.
Sean took a sharp inhale and composed his look.
“I appreciate the concerned question, but I’m here to talk about the team, the Cup, not my family.” His answer came short, no-nonsense.
The moderator called for the next question, but I didn’t hear it.
With the Stanley Cup only a week away, this was a huge setback on Sean’s morale. He’d told me how his playing years, his dad’s story surfaced, but a mentor helped shut it down. Now, with national attention locked on him, how would he—actually we—keep a pre-Cup interview from spiraling?
I felt sick for him.
He’d been so proud when he told me about his tattoo—Hold the line. It was his promise to stand in for the parent who failed to do so. And now they’d dragged it under the spotlight, years of struggle reduced to a fake-concerned soundbite.
I picked up my phone and texted him.
Me:Hey, I watched the press conference. That rehab question was peak nosy. I’ll swing by after errands.
Sean:Can’t wait to see you.
The rest of the day blurred in logistics, emails, and summaries. I didn’t hear from Sean again. He was probably reaching out to rehab, processing things.
It was Friday, and since I was the only one with a car, the house restock fell to me. After a whirlwind trip to the store, I hauled everything inside—trunk emptied, counters lined with produce, cleaning supplies stacked on the floor.
Dad wasn’t home. Friday nights, he usually stayed late at the golf course, preparing for the Saturday morning crowd.
I had just finished refrigerating the fresh stuff when the front door opened.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, Melanie.”
Melanie.I paused mid-action, instantly alert. That tone, that full-name usage, was rarely a good sign.
“You didn’t travel with the team last weekend,” she said slowly, “and you weren’t here either.”
Heat rose up my neck. Seriously, I must’ve been born with a built-in heat sensor for maternal disapproval. I was pushing thirty, for crying out loud, too grown to be flushed by my mother’s insinuations. And yet.
“You insisted on visiting that man,” she went on, “whose baggage gets messier every day. Alcohol, now?”
That landed like a full-on, open-palm slap.
“You already saw it?” I blurted.
She smirked. “Were you hiding it?”
I stood frozen. Was she following hockey now? Tracking Sean?
