Page 19

Chapter 19

Garrett

I 'm about to pour myself a drink when the doorbell rings. I excitedly swing the door open but the look on Cyn’s face makes my stomach drops. She stands in my hallway, shoulders slumped, her normally bright eyes rimmed with red. Something's wrong. Something’s very wrong.

"Cyn?" I reach for her hand, pulling her gently inside. "What happened?"

She doesn't answer. Her ponytail is messy, strands escaping in all directions, and she’s wearing baggy sweats and a hoodie.

"Can I get you something? Water? Tea?" I move toward the kitchen, needing to do something— anything.

"Water would be good." Her voice lacks its usual spark.

My hands are steady as I fill a glass, but inside I'm a storm. Whoever or whatever put that look on her face has awakened something in me. I want to fix this. Immediately.

I hand her the water and guide her to the couch with my palm against the small of her back. She sinks into the cushions like she's been standing for days.

"Talk to me." I sit close, but I try not to crowd her. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out."

She takes a sip, then carefully sets the glass on the coffee table. "It's Marjorie."

Of course it is. That woman has been a thorn in Cyn's side since day one. But there's something different this time—the tremor in Cyn's hands tells me this is worse than the usual workplace bullshit.

"What did she do?" I keep my voice level, despite feeling like I’m going to explode.

"She knows about us." Cyn looks up at me, her green eyes clouded with worry.

I take her hand in mine, giving her something to hold onto. "How?"

"She’s seen us together and noticed how we look at each other. And, apparently, one of the players mentioned something about the Denver away game.” She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter how. She knows, and she's threatening to fire me."

The heat in my chest flares into a bonfire. "She can't do that."

"She says she can. She says it's a violation of team policy."

I stand up, needing to move. Energy pulses through me, demanding action. "That's bullshit. There's no policy against staff dating coaches."

"Not explicitly, but there are rules about professional conduct and conflict of interest. She's twisting them." Cyn's voice breaks. "Garrett, I can't lose this job."

I sit down next to her again, gently taking both her hands in mine. Her fingers are cold. "Listen to me. You're not going to lose your job. I won't let that happen."

A tear slips down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb.

"I'm so tired," she whispers. "I've been worrying about this all day. I had lunch with Sophie and she made me feel better for a bit. But then all the anxiety came back and I couldn't focus on anything."

"Poor baby." I move beside her on the couch and pull her against me. She fits perfectly in the crook of my arm, her head resting on my chest. I kiss the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. "You're safe here. We're going to figure this out."

She nods against my chest, but I can feel the tension still locked in her muscles.

"Have you eaten?" I ask, feeling my protective instincts kick into overdrive.

"Not since lunch and I couldn’t eat much."

"I'll make us some dinner and then we’ll talk this through. You rest here." I start to move, but her hand grips my shirt.

"Don't go yet. Just...stay like this for a minute."

I settle back, holding her closer. My anger at Marjorie simmers, but I push it down. Right now, Cyn needs calm. She needs safety. Everything else can wait.

"I've got you," I murmur into her hair. "Both of you. And I'm not going anywhere."

Eventually I get up and head to the kitchen. I stand in front of my open refrigerator, surveying the contents with new purpose. I need something that will tempt Cyn’s appetite, something warm and comforting. My eyes land on a block of sharp cheddar, some gruyere and a loaf of sourdough bread. Perfect. Grilled cheese and tomato soup—the kind of food that feels like a hug from the inside.

"Do you think you can eat?" I call to her.

"Actually, yes." She appears in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame. The color has returned to her cheeks, and she's pulled her hair free of its ponytail. "What are you making?"

"Grilled cheese and a can of tomato soup." I pull out the ingredients, setting them on the counter. “I wish I had the time and ingredients to make you some soup, but this will have to do.”

She smiles, a real one this time. "Sounds perfect."

She sits at the kitchen island, watching me work. I feel her eyes follow my movements as I slice the cheddar into precise pieces.

“I love that you cook.”

I arrange the cheese on the bread. "Good with a stick, good with a knife."

Her laugh is soft but genuine. "I don't think those skills are related."

I laugh and begin melting butter in a pan. "I worry about you not eating enough."

"I'm eating." She rests her chin in her hand. "Just...selectively."

"Selectively meaning 'hardly at all'?" I raise an eyebrow as I stir the soup warming on the adjacent burner.

"I've found what works." She tucks her feet up onto the stool, looking more relaxed. "Lots of ginger tea. And crackers."

"Crackers aren't a meal." I flip the sandwiches, revealing perfectly golden-brown exteriors.

"I've also been doing acupuncture." She says it like she's confessing to something scandalous.

This catches my attention. I turn to look at her. "Really? And it helps?"

She nods. "Surprisingly, yes. I was skeptical, but after the first session, the morning sickness wasn't as bad."

"I wouldn't have pegged you for an alternative medicine person." I plate the sandwiches, cutting them diagonally—the only way to cut a grilled cheese.

"I wasn't until I experienced morning sickness." She accepts the plate I slide toward her. "Desperate times."

I ladle soup into bowls, the rich red color a perfect complement to the golden sandwiches. "Whatever works. I just want you healthy."

Her first bite of the sandwich draws a sound of appreciation. "This is incredible." She takes another bite, cheese stretching in strings between the bread and her mouth. "How is your grilled cheese this good?"

I shrug, pleased with her reaction. "Secret's in the butter. And using more than one type of cheese."

"There's another cheese in here?" She inspects the sandwich with new interest.

"Gruyère. Melts better than cheddar."

She shakes her head, clearly impressed. "Hockey player, coach, gourmet grilled cheese maker. You're full of surprises, Hughes."

We eat in comfortable silence, the tension easing a bit with each bite. The simple act of sharing food has shifted the mood, grounded us both. I watch her eat with satisfaction, noting how she's already consumed half the sandwich and started on the soup.

After dinner, I pace the length of my living room, each step measured and deliberate.

"I could go directly to Marjorie," I say, my voice deceptively calm, betraying none of the fury inside me. "Have a little chat about workplace harassment."

Cyn shakes her head, concern evident in her eyes. She's curled into the corner of my couch with Shade sitting right next to her. "That would make it worse. She'd see it as confrontation, and she'd take it out on me."

"She's already taking it out on you." I stop pacing and face her. "This needs to end.”

"What are you going to do?" There's both hope and worry in her question.

I sit on the coffee table across from her, our knees almost touching. "First thing tomorrow, I'm talking to Martinez. He needs to know what's happening."

"Will he care? He relies on Marjorie."

"He will care." I reach for her hand. "Tony's a good man, and he values you. The entire team does. You've helped at least half of those guys stay on the ice this season."

She doesn't look convinced.

"I was already planning to talk to him about us," I continue. "But this—" I gesture between us, "—isn't something we need to hide. It's not wrong. And using it to threaten your job? That's crossing a line."

"If that doesn't work, I go to HR. And if they drag their feet, I go to ownership."

Her eyes widen. "You'd talk to George Corso about this?"

"In a heartbeat." The owner of the Blades isn't someone staff typically interact with, but I've known him for years. "George and I go way back. He'll listen."

I stand again, unable to contain my energy. "This was always going to come out, Cyn. We're having a baby. We're building something together. I was just waiting for the right time, but Marjorie forced our hand."

"I'm scared," she admits, voice barely audible.

The naked vulnerability in those two words almost breaks me. I kneel in front of her, the gravity of the situation settling in.

"Let me be clear about something," I say, holding her gaze. "If—and this is a big if—things go badly with the team, you will be okay. We will be okay. I have resources, connections. There are other teams, other clinics that would be lucky to have you."

"I don't want other teams." Her eyes fill with tears. "I want to keep my job."

"And you will." My voice hardens with conviction. "This is what I do, Cyn. I strategize. I anticipate problems and solve them. On the ice and off."

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Coach mode activated?"

"Damn right." I stand up again. "Tomorrow morning, I'll meet with Martinez first thing. I'll lay out the situation—professionally. No emotional outbursts. Just facts. Then we go to HR together to document Marjorie's behavior."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"Then we escalate. George Corso doesn't tolerate bullies. And there's also the legal angle—sexual discrimination is against the law. We have options, Cyn. "

She takes a deep breath, and I see a flicker of the fight that I love in her eyes.

"I trust you," she says. "I'm just not used to having someone fight my battles."

"I'm not fighting it for you. We're fighting it together." I sit beside her again, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I want to protect you and our baby. But I also respect that you can handle yourself. Consider me your extremely motivated partner in this particular showdown."

That earns me a real smile, small but genuine. I press my lips to the soft skin at her temple.

"Marjorie picked the wrong person to mess with," I murmur. "She just doesn't know it yet."

We sit in silence for a few minutes, her body warm against mine. I can almost hear the thoughts racing through her mind. When she finally speaks, her voice is steadier, but the words cut through me.

“I’m trying but I just can’t shake this fear.”

"Tell me what’s going through your mind," I say softly.

She looks down at her hands, folded tightly in her lap. "I watched my mom struggle after my dad left. She worked three jobs sometimes. We lived paycheck to paycheck." Her voice thickens. "She never got to have a career. Just jobs that paid the bills."

I wait, sensing there's more.

"I promised myself I'd never be in that position. Never be dependent on anyone but myself." She looks up at me, her green eyes fierce despite the tears gathering in them. "And now—with the baby—I'm scared."

"Of depending on me," I finish for her.

She nods. "I don't want to need you financially. I don't want that to be why we're together."

"It's not." I take her hand, feeling an electric current between us, a connection that grounds me. "And it never will be."

"You say that now, but?—"

"No." I cut her off gently but firmly. "This isn't something I'm saying lightly, Cyn. I need you to hear me." I shift to face her directly. "I've been smart with my money. Fifteen years in the NHL, good investments. I'm set. Not just comfortable—secure."

She starts to speak, but I continue.

"I'm not telling you this to brag. I'm telling you because I need you to understand that if you leaned on me financially—temporarily or permanently—it wouldn't create an imbalance between us."

"It would for me," she says quietly.

I nod, respecting her feelings. "I understand that. And I'm not asking you to give up your career or your independence. I want you to keep being the kick-ass physical therapist you are. But I also need you to know that you have options. That we have options."

She's quiet for a moment, processing. "This isn't how I planned things."

"Life rarely goes according to plan." I smile slightly.

She shakes her head slightly.

"I'm not asking you to depend on me," I say, more serious now. "I'm asking you to trust that we can face this together. As equals. Your contribution to our relationship—to our family—isn't measured by your paycheck."

"That's easy for you to say," she counters.

"Maybe so." I acknowledge the truth in her words. "But consider this—what if the situation were reversed? What if I was the one who needed support? Would you think less of me?"

"Of course not."

"Then give yourself the same grace." I brush a loose strand of hair from her face. "And know that whatever happens with Marjorie and the team, we'll handle it. You won't lose everything you've worked for."

She leans against me again, some of the tension leaving her body. "I still want to fight for my job."

"And we will. Hard." I press my lips to her forehead. "But I need you to stop worrying about the worst-case scenario. It's not good for you or the baby."

At the mention of our child, her hand moves instinctively to her stomach. The gesture sends a surge of protectiveness through me so strong it's almost painful.

"I just feel so out of control," she admits.

"I know. But you're not alone in this." I cover her hand with mine, both of us touching the place where our baby is growing. "You're so strong, Cyn. But even the strongest people need backup sometimes."

She buries her face in my chest. "When did you get so wise?"

"Years of listening to my coaches," I say, feeling her laugh against me. "Some of it was bound to stick."

We sit quietly for a moment, the air around us lighter.

"Thank you," she finally says.

"For what?"

"For being someone I can depend on." She looks up at me, her eyes clearer now, filled with resolve. "Even though I'm still going to insist on paying my own way."

I laugh. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

Our fingers interlace, and despite the situation, despite the challenges ahead, I feel grounded. Whatever comes next, we'll face it together.