Page 110 of Her Coach

“I read it.” I crossed my arms over my chest and kept the doorframe at my back because I needed something solid behind me. “I know what it says. I know what you’re sitting there thinking. And I’m asking you not to do it.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“You’re thinking you need to pull back so the story dies,” I said. “You’re thinking that if you give them nothing to chase, they’ll move on. You’re thinking that the right thing to do is protect me by putting distance between us until this blows over.” I held his eyes. “How’m I doing?”

He didn’t answer, which was its own answer.

I let that sit for a second. I wanted him to feel it, the shape of what he’d been about to do without asking me. Then I pushed off the doorframe and walked into the kitchen, not toward him, just far enough that I wasn’t shouting across the room anymore.

“I’m not her,” I said. My voice came out quieter than I meant it to. “I’m not whoever she was. The one before. I’m not going to fall apart over a gossip article, Colton. I work in a hockey stadium. I’ve been listening to people talk about scandals and trades and front office drama my entire life. I know how this works.”

“Knowing how it works and living through it are two different things.”

“You said that to me last night,” I said. “And last night I let it go because you needed to say it. But Colton, you sitting at this table deciding for me what I can handle is the exact same thing I do with my mother, and you have spent weeks telling me to stop doing it.”

That landed. I watched it land. He sat back in his chair, jaw working, eyes somewhere on the table between us.

“I’m not asking you to hold a press conference,” I said. “I’m not asking you to go public and make some big statement. I’m asking you to not disappear on me because a story got picked up. That’s it. That’s all I’m asking.”

He was quiet for a long time.

“You deserve someone without this kind of baggage,” he said. His voice was low. Almost like he didn’t want me to hear it.

“Maybe,” I said. “But I don’t want someone without baggage. I want you. And you need to decide right now if you’re going to let a headline make that decision for us, or if you’re going to sit there and let me drink my coffee and figure out what we do next. Together.”

He looked up at me then. Really looked.

I didn’t say anything else. I walked to the coffee pot, poured myself a fresh cup, and sat down across from him at the kitchen table. I wrapped both hands around the mug. I waited.

It took him about thirty seconds. Then he reached across the table and put his hand over mine. Both of them, the way he always did when he meant something.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For the thirty seconds I spent thinking about walking away from this.”

I nodded. “Was it longer than thirty seconds?”

“Might’ve been closer to two hours.”

“Then I accept an apology for two hours,” I said.

The corner of his mouth moved. Not a full smile, but the start of one. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I squeezed his hands. “Now what are we going to do about it?”

He was quiet for a beat. Then he picked up his phone from the table, flipped it face up, and slid it toward me so I could see what he was typing.

A text to his agent. Three words.

No statement. Done.

I blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he said. “Last time I made a statement, they had six more weeks of material. You say nothing, you give them nothing. Story dies on its own.” He leaned forward on the table, his eyes on mine. “And Monday I’m walking into that rink with you, and I’m not hiding a thing. Anyone who’s got a problem with it can come talk to me directly.”

I studied his face. “You mean that?”

“I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean,” he said. “Not anymore.”

I reached across and took his phone out of his hand. I hit send on the text to his agent. Then I set it back down on the table between us.