Page 36

Chapter 36

Game Face On

Dominic

I was surprised my knuckles didn’t crack from the grip I had on my steering wheel. The sun was barely awake, but I’d been up for hours. Sleep was a joke after watching my father try to dismantle my life from a podcast set last night. It still seemed unreal, but honestly, I wasn’t that surprised he’d done something like that.

I pulled into the facility parking lot, my phone buzzing for the hundredth time since I’d started driving. This time it was Kessler reminding me we had a damage control meeting at eight.

Facing the firing squad was just what I wanted to deal with before what was sure to be a tense team meeting and a light practice later. We didn’t have Game Two until the following evening, so thankfully I didn’t have that added stress.

I headed to Carter’s office first since he’d had to get to the facility extra early for a pre-meeting emergency meeting. He was sitting at his desk with a cup of coffee, looking completely out of place.

Over the past months, I’d come to realize that Carter really didn’t have any desire to embrace corporate life. It was written all over him, from the way his expensive suits always looked like they were holding him hostage to how he fidgeted through meetings like a kid counting down the minutes until recess.

The man had bought into the team, sure, but watching him try to act like a businessman was like seeing someone attempt to stuff a square peg into a round hole while using a sledgehammer and pure optimism.

Not that I could entirely blame him. The boardroom wasn’t exactly my happy place either, but at least I’d made peace with that part of my responsibilities. Carter, on the other hand, looked like he’d prefer to be somewhere that he could throw paint at a canvas.

He looked up from his phone. “You look like shit.”

I dropped into the chair across from him. “Thanks. I’ve been working on this look all night. How bad is it?”

Carter grimaced, sliding his phone across the desk to me. My father’s interview had gone viral overnight. The NHL subreddit was aflame, and social media feeds were cesspools of hot takes and speculation. Sports blogs were already publishing articles with headlines like “Dynasty Drama: Hockey Legend Claims the Stanley Cup Finals Are Compromised.”

I scrolled through comments, each one making my blood pressure tick higher. Most were theorizing about the timeline of our relationship, and a disturbing number were questioning Nora’s integrity.

I ran my hand over my face, feeling the overgrown stubble I hadn’t bothered to trim. “I should’ve seen this coming. He’s always waited until the biggest moments before striking. It’s like he took months of all that pent-up rage from me ignoring him and rolled it into one.”

Carter leaned forward, his expensive suit jacket pulling tight across his shoulders as he braced his forearms on the desk. The sincerity in his expression caught me off guard. “You did the right thing cutting him out of your life.” There was something steadying about hearing it from him.

“I know.” It had taken a while, but once I’d blocked him on all my social media and phone, it was like I’d emerged a new man.

“You better get your game face on.” Carter nodded toward the hallway where Kessler’s assistant was power-walking toward us.

“Gentlemen. They’re waiting for you in the conference room.” Her expression was grave, like she was escorting us to our own execution.

The walk down the hall felt like trudging through knee-deep snow with weights on my ankles, but by the time we reached our destination, my resolve had hardened into something dangerous. I wasn’t about to let my father ruin everything I’d built.

The conference table was already surrounded. Kessler was at the head, and Coach Lovell was to his right, looking like he’d aged five years overnight. Across from him sat Theresa from PR, dark circles under her eyes as she typed furiously on her laptop. Two executives I only vaguely recognized rounded out the table.

“Wilson. Campbell. Sit.” Kessler gestured to the empty chairs. “We have a lot to discuss.”

I sank into the nearest chair, and Carter dropped into the seat beside me, his knee pressed against mine in silent support. Somehow, that small bit of familiarity helped steady my racing thoughts.

“I’m assuming you’ve seen the interview.” Kessler folded his hands on the table.

“Yes, sir.” I’d watched it about ten times, which I knew wasn’t healthy but was necessary to remind myself how important it was for me and my family that I not cower.

Theresa cleared her throat. “The story’s been picked up by every major sports outlet. We’re getting requests for statements from ESPN, The Athletic, TSN, and the list goes on.”

“What did your father hope to accomplish with this?” Kessler stared directly at me. He’d been more than accommodating when we’d come forward about our relationship, but his face now was not reassuring.

I looked over at Carter, who gave me a nod of reassurance. “As you know, my father had quite the reputation as a player, and that extended off the ice at home. Not just when I was younger, but also throughout my career, up until December.”

The admission tasted bitter on my tongue. I’d spent months carefully constructing walls only to have him try to demolish everything with one calculated interview. It wasn’t only bitterness I tasted but the familiar aftertaste of disappointment that always lingered after any interaction with a man who’d perfected the art of emotional sabotage before I could even skate.

“And what happened in December?” Lovell prompted.

“I woke up.” I looked around the table. “I cut him out of my life. As for why he’s doing this now? Who the hell knows? His name never got put on the Cup, and now he’s probably angry that he hasn’t played a part in my success this season.”

The table was silent for a solid minute, the kind of oppressive quiet that reminded me of those long, awful dinners at home where one wrong word could set my father off. I studied the grain of the wood, tracing invisible patterns with my eyes while fighting the urge to fill the void with explanations or excuses.

Carter’s knee was still pressed against mine, and I focused on that small point of contact like an anchor keeping me from drifting into old, destructive patterns. I was better than that now.

“He’s created quite the mess.” Kessler turned to Theresa. “What’s our strategy?”

She straightened, switching to presentation mode. “We’ve drafted a statement denying any impropriety within the organization. We acknowledge that there are personal relationships but stress that all parties have conducted themselves professionally. We emphasize that the team stands behind both Dominic and Nora and categorically deny any sharing of information across teams.”

“Sounds very corporate.” Carter’s voice held an edge that I rarely heard.

“It’s non-inflammatory and refocuses attention on the Finals, which is where it should be,” Theresa countered.

My mind drifted as they debated wording. I thought of Nora last night and how she’d tried to comfort me even while she was the one being slandered. How our daughter had kicked against my palm when I placed it on Nora’s stomach, like she was telling me to get my shit together and fix this.

“Wilson?” Lovell’s voice snapped me back to the room. “You with us?”

“I want to do a press conference.” I’d already decided what I wanted, and the organization could either support me or not. “Live. Today.”

The room fell silent for the second time.

“That’s not advisable,” Theresa said carefully. “A written statement gives us control.”

“My father accused the mother of my child of sabotaging the Stanley Cup Finals. A press release isn’t going to cut it.” I leaned forward. “I want cameras. I want it on record. And I want to do it before Game Two.”

“Dominic.” Kessler sighed, taking off his glasses and putting them on the table. “This will bring even more attention to your… relationship.” He looked at Carter briefly before looking back at me.

“With all due respect, sir, this isn’t just about the team. It’s about my family, Nora’s reputation, and our daughter.” My voice didn’t waver. “I’ve spent my entire life letting him control the narrative. Not this time.”

Carter nodded beside me, a silent show of support.

I straightened in my seat. “A press release looks like we’re hiding something. A front-facing response shows we have nothing to hide. I’ve spent too many years ducking and weaving around him. Not this time.”

Coach Lovell studied me for a long moment. “You sure you’re up for this? The press will be out for blood.”

“I can handle some reporters.” The confidence in my voice surprised even me.

“Let’s say we do this,” Kessler said slowly. “What exactly do you plan to say?”

“The truth. That Nora and I are expecting a child together. That my relationship with her, Miles, and Carter is personal and has nothing to do with hockey. That my father’s accusations are false, and that I’m focused on winning the Cup, not his bullshit.”

Theresa looked like she might faint at that last part.

“We’ll need parameters.” She was already typing. “Pre-approved questions. A moderator. Time limits.”

Kessler exchanged glances with Lovell, then nodded. “This afternoon. After practice. We’ll set it up in the press room.”

Relief washed through me. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to take this head-on until the decision was made.

As the meeting finished and I stepped into the hallway, I felt lighter than I had since last night. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t living in my father’s shadow. I was stepping directly into the light.

* * *

I tugged at my tie, already feeling like it was strangling me. The press room buzzed with energy, every seat filled, cameras positioned throughout the space like predators waiting to pounce.

“You ready for this?” Theresa adjusted my microphone with hands that moved efficiently despite her obvious anxiety.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

I stepped up to the podium, the lights immediately obscuring my vision. Photographers’ cameras clicked in rapid-fire succession, creating a strange percussion to accompany my thundering heartbeat.

Theresa took her position beside me and cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, everyone. Dominic Wilson has a statement to make regarding recent public comments about his personal life and will take a few questions afterward. We ask that you respect the parameters we’ve outlined.”

I squared my shoulders and leaned into the microphone. “Thank you all for coming. I’m here to address the statements made by Garrett Wilson on Puck Around and Find Out last night.”

The room fell silent, everyone leaning forward slightly like they were afraid to miss a word.

“First, yes, Nora Hastings and I are in a relationship. Yes, we’re expecting a child together. And yes, we’re also in a relationship with Miles Collins and Carter Campbell.”

The click of cameras intensified. I could practically see the headlines writing themselves.

“What I won’t stand for are accusations that any of us have compromised the integrity of this team or this series. Nora Hastings is one of the most professional people I’ve ever met. Her father being the coach of our opponent is a coincidence, not a conspiracy.”

I paused. “If anything, someone should be investigating Nora for being too good at her job. She coached more than half of the Storm’s roster last season. Wherever she goes, teams seem to end up competing for the Cup.”

A ripple of surprised laughter spread through the room, breaking the tension.

“The relationships in my personal life are just that: personal. They don’t affect what happens on the ice. If anything...” I couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto my face. “They’ve made me a better player and a better person.”

A reporter in the front row raised his hand, and Theresa nodded at him.

“Dominic, how do you respond to the accusations that there’s been improper information sharing between Brett Hastings and Nora Hastings?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Completely false. The Storm are a formidable opponent, and they got the best of us last night. As for information sharing, I ask, what exactly would she have shared that isn’t visible from watching footage? Nora maintains the highest professional standards, and anyone who’s worked with her can confirm that.”

Another reporter jumped in. “You speak of professional standards, but what about the timing of this relationship? Did it start while Ms. Hastings was already your coach?”

The question made my jaw clench. “Our personal relationship developed after she joined the team, yes. But we don’t bring that onto the ice.”

“And what would you say to people who think this is inappropriate fraternization?”

The question came from the back, from a blogger I recognized as one of the more combative sports writers in the area.

“Nora doesn’t make roster decisions, and she doesn’t determine my ice time. She makes me do the work and run drills that I hate.” I smiled slightly. “The team and the rest of the organization support our relationship, and that’s what matters.”

A woman from a major hockey publication raised her hand. “Do you have any response for your father?”

This was the question I’d been dreading and expecting. I straightened my shoulders. “No.”

The room waited for more, but I remained silent. Let them interpret that how they wanted. My father didn’t deserve any more of my time or energy.

Theresa leaned in. “We have time for one more question.”

A veteran reporter I’d known since my rookie year stood up. “Dominic, with all this going on off the ice, how do you stay focused on the series?”

Finally, a hockey question. “The same way I always do. When I step on the ice, nothing else exists except the game. We’re down one-nothing in the series, but we’ve been in tougher spots. Tomorrow night, the only thing on my mind will be helping this team win.”

“Thank you, everyone,” Theresa interjected smoothly. “That’s all the time we have for questions.”

The reporters erupted with more questions, but I was already stepping away from the podium, my body lighter than it had been in twenty-four hours and possibly in my entire adult life. I’d said what needed to be heard, and more importantly, what I hadn’t said to my father spoke volumes.

For the first time in my life, I hadn’t let my father’s voice drown out mine.