Page 22

Chapter 22

Garrett

I 'm reviewing game footage when the knock comes. Three quick taps. I open the door and she stands there, her professional mask slipping. Something's wrong. My stomach tightens.

"Hey." Her voice is tight.

"What happened?" I ask, anxious to know why she looks so downtrodden.

"Marjorie happened."

The name alone sends a ripple of irritation through me.

"Tell me." My voice drops an octave.

Cyn's eyes meet mine. "She came into the PT room this morning and proceeded to call me a slut in front of Adam and all the players that were in there. Then she said she’s going to see to it that I’m fired immediately."

My hands clench as she goes on to tell me the rest of the sordid story.

Heat crawls up my neck. My temples throb with the fury of it. Cyn doesn't deserve this—she's brilliant, hardworking, and this is bullshit.

"She said I’m not any better than a puck bunny just trying to get laid," Cyn continues.

My blood is lava now. I stand frozen, because even the slightest movement feels dangerous.

"This is about control. Not professional standards."

"I know that. But she outranks me, and?—"

"And nothing." I begin to pace my office. My hands are numb, but I feel a heat in my chest, an uncomfortable burn that I recognize as pure rage. "I’m putting an end to this."

Cyn's eyes widen. "Garrett, be careful. She's looking for ammunition."

"I don't give a damn." I modulate my voice. Fifteen years in professional hockey taught me when to unleash and when to strategize. "We've done nothing wrong."

"We're breaking an unwritten rule."

"Unwritten. Not policy." I move closer to her. "You're the best PT on staff. The players respect you. Your treatment protocols are amazing."

Her eyes soften slightly. "I appreciate that, but?—"

"No buts. Marjorie's been miserable for years. Everyone knows it." I run a hand through my hair. "This is about power, not propriety."

"I know what this job means to you. That's why we're not letting Marjorie's unhappiness destroy what you've built." I cross my arms. "We need to talk to George. He's fair. He’s reasonable."

"And if he's not?" Her voice is small.

The question hangs between us. The possibility that Cyn could lose her job makes me sick to my stomach.

"Then I'll step away." The words taste bitter in my mouth, but I mean them. "I won't be the reason you lose what you've worked for."

She flinches. "No, Garrett. You can’t?—"

"If that’s what it comes down to, that’s what I’ll do." I straighten.

Cyn's shoulders straighten, her chin lifts—the fighter in her resurfacing. God, I admire her.

"When do we talk to him?"

"Today. Now." I'm already dialing, already planning. I protect what matters. And Cyn—beautiful, brilliant Cyn who is pregnant with my baby—matters more than I can say.

An hour later, we’re entering George's corner suite which sits at the end of the executive hallway. Cyn walks beside me, her steps measured.

"His assistant said to go right in," I say, stopping at the imposing double doors.

Cyn nods. Her face is composed, but I catch the quick flutter of her fingers against her thigh—a nervous tell I've noticed since the first night I met her in Vegas.

"Let me do the talking at first," I tell her. "George respects directness."

"And if he says no?" Her voice is steady, but her eyes betray her fear.

"Then we deal with it. Together." I want to touch her shoulder, her hand—anything to reassure her—but I can’t. "No matter what happens in there, you won't face it alone."

Our eyes lock. A moment of understanding passes between us. Then I knock twice and push the door open.

George Corso rises from behind his desk. At sixty-two, he still has the commanding presence that made him a legendary general manager before he bought the team. Silver hair. Sharp eyes. Expensive tailored suit.

"Garrett. Ms. Lockhart." He gestures to the leather chairs facing his desk. "My assistant said it was urgent."

Cyn and I sit. The office smells of leather and the faint citrus of George's cologne.

"It is, George." I don't slouch, don't fidget. "We need to discuss something that affects both the team and our personal lives."

His eyebrows raise slightly, but he leans back, giving me the floor.

"Cynthia and I are seeing each other." Direct, no qualifiers. "It's recent, but serious. We've been discreet and professional at work."

George's face remains neutral, his blue eyes flicking between us.

"This morning, Marjorie threatened to have Cyn fired because of our relationship." My voice stays even, though the memory of Cyn's face when she told me makes my jaw tighten. "She did this in a very unprofessional manner in front of some of our players and another PT."

"I see." George folds his hands on his desk. "And you're coming to me because?"

"Because I respect you and this organization too much for this to become a distraction." I lean forward slightly. "I know there's an unwritten policy about staff relationships. I understand why it exists."

"It exists to prevent exactly this kind of situation," George notes.

"With all due respect, this situation exists because of Marjorie's response, not our relationship." I hold his gaze. "Our work hasn't suffered. The team hasn't suffered."

George turns to Cyn. "Ms. Lockhart? Your perspective?"

She sits straighter. "I take my job here seriously, Mr. Corso. I've never let personal feelings affect my professional judgment, and I never will."

I'm proud of her steadiness, her strength.

"We know this puts you in a difficult position," I continue. "So I want to make something clear." I take a breath. "If one of us has to go, it should be me."

"I've had my career. Championship ring. Good pension. Options. Cyn is just starting her career, and she's brilliant at what she does. The team needs her more than they need another assistant coach."

George studies me, his expression unreadable.

"You'd walk away from coaching? After just getting back in?" he asks.

"For her? Yes." No hesitation.

He nods slowly, eyes moving between us again. "And you, Ms. Lockhart? Would you make the same sacrifice?"

"I—" She falters for the first time.

"She doesn't have to answer that," I interject. "This is my call."

"Actually, it's mine," George says, his voice carrying the weight of his authority. "This is my team. My organization."

The silence stretches. I don't fill it. Don't rush him. Some shots need to be perfectly set up.

Finally, George sighs. "Fifteen years we've known each other, Hughes. You've never struck me as impulsive."

"I'm not."

"No," he agrees. "You're not." He taps his fingers on his desk, thinking. "And Marjorie has been—challenging—to work with for years."

Hope flickers, but I keep my expression even. George isn't done yet.

"Still, there are procedures. Protocols. The team culture to consider."

"All of which matter," I acknowledge. "But so does treating valuable staff with respect."

George leans back again, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considers us. I've seen that look before—weighing options, calculating risks and benefits, making the tough calls.

"I need to think about this. I have a meeting in five minutes," he says, glancing at his watch. "But I'll get back to you today.”

We stand and I extend my hand. "Thank you for hearing us out, George."

His grip is firm. "Talk to you both soon."

We leave, the uncertainty hanging between us like smoke. In the hallway, Cyn's fingers find mine for the briefest moment.

"Did that go well?" she whispers.

"We'll know soon," I reply, but I feel strangely confident. George heard us. Really heard us. Sometimes that's all you need—a fair shot.

Time drags like a penalty kill that never ends. Cyn and I spend it in my office, both of us distracting ourselves with work. After about an hour, we’re summoned to return to George's office. His assistant waves us straight in. George stands at his window, back to us, hands clasped behind him. The Chicago skyline stretches beyond him. He turns, his face giving nothing away.

"Sit, please," he says, gesturing to the chairs we occupied earlier.

George takes his seat, adjusts a pen on his blotter, then looks up at us.

"I've spent the last thirty minutes thinking about team dynamics." His voice is measured. "About precedents and exceptions."

I nod. Waiting.

"The policy discouraging staff relationships exists for good reason." He taps his finger once on his desk. "Favoritism. Conflicts of interest. Drama when things end badly."

The last hits hard. Things ending badly. I glance at Cyn—her profile straight, shoulders back, eyes fixed on George. I can't imagine ending it with her.

"That said..." George leans back in his chair. "I've also been thinking about individual circumstances."

Something shifts in the air. The tension eases a fraction.

"Garrett, you're not in Cyn's chain of command. You have no say in her evaluations, assignments, or advancement." He looks at Cyn. "And Ms. Lockhart, you have no direct professional involvement with coaching decisions or assistant coach evaluations."

"That's correct," Cyn confirms, her voice steady.

George nods. "Then I see no conflict."

I breathe for what feels like the first time in hours.

"You have my blessing." He says it simply. No fanfare. "Keep it professional at work. No PDA in team spaces. No special treatment or perceived favoritism. Do that, and we have no issue."

"Thank you, George." My voice comes out rougher than intended.

Cyn sits straighter. "I appreciate your understanding, Mr. Corso."

"Call me George, please." He smiles slightly.

"As for Marjorie..." He sighs. "Her behavior was wildly inappropriate. I'll speak with HR about that immediately."

"We don't want to cause problems," Cyn starts.

George holds up a hand. "The problem isn't your relationship, Ms. Lockhart. It's threatening someone's career over a non-existent policy violation." He looks at me. "I won’t tolerate that from anyone on my team.”

I nod, a surge of respect for him washing through me.

George stands indicating the end of the meeting. "Keep doing excellent work, both of you. That's all I ask."

We both rise and I extend my hand. "We will."

He shakes it firmly, then offers his hand to Cyn. "I don't often question Marjorie's personnel judgments—she's been here longer than most of us—but her assessment of your skills couldn't be more wrong. The players speak very highly of you."

Cyn shakes his hand, her professional mask lifting slightly to reveal genuine gratitude. "That means a lot."

"Good." George walks us to the door. "Now, I suggest you both get back to preparing for tomorrow's game. Edmonton's power play has been ruthless lately."

"On it," I say, and we step into the hallway.

The door closes behind us. Cyn and I look at each other, not touching, not speaking. Her eyes are bright. We walk side by side down the hallway, maintaining proper distance until we reach the elevator.

"Did that just happen?" she whispers as the doors close, giving us a moment of privacy.

"It did." I finally let myself smile. "It absolutely did."

The relief is so strong it makes my knees weak. I won't have to choose between my career and her. She won't be punished for choosing me. Sometimes the game breaks your way after all.

We head into my office and I shut the door behind us. The blinds are already drawn from our earlier strategy session. Cyn stands in the center of the room, her professional composure still intact. Then her eyes meet mine, and it crumbles all at once. A smile breaks across her face like sunrise.

I cross to her in two strides and wrap my arms around her waist, lifting her slightly. Her hands grip my shoulders, and she lets out a sound between a laugh and a sob.

"I can't believe it," she whispers against my neck. "I was so sure we were screwed."

I set her down, but I don’t let go. Not yet. The adrenaline crash hits us both—the aftermath of preparing for the worst and finding grace instead.

She laughs, the sound full and unrestrained. "God, I feel like I can breathe for the first time today."

I guide her to the small couch against the wall. We sit, her hand in mine, our shoulders touching. Simple contact that felt dangerous hours ago now sanctioned, acknowledged.

I bring her hand to my lips, press a kiss to her knuckles. "I'm sorry this morning was so awful."

"I’m okay." She leans her head against my shoulder. "I’m just happy we don't have to sneak around anymore. No more pretending we barely know each other in the hallways."

The relief in her voice mirrors what's expanding in my chest. Freedom. We have freedom now.

"I was ready to walk away from my job, you know." I say it quietly. "If he'd made us choose."

She sits up, eyes serious suddenly. "I never asked you to do that."

"You didn't have to."

"I wouldn't have let you."

I smile at her fierceness. "Might not have been up to you."

"Everything that involves us is up to both of us." She pokes my chest for emphasis. "Equal partners, Hughes. On and off the clock."

"Yes, ma'am," I say, capturing her finger and kissing it. "Speaking of clocks, we should probably get back to work before someone thinks we're celebrating our victory inappropriately."

She laughs but stands. "You're right. I have Miller's ankle to assess, and you have that video review to finish."

"Dinner tonight?" I ask, rising to join her. "Somewhere nice? To celebrate?"

"Yes." Her smile is soft. "And maybe we pick up Oscar from my place after? Bring him to yours?"

Her puppy. At my place. Another step forward. "I'd like that. And it will be interesting to see what Shade has to say about it."

She retucks her polo and adjusts her ponytail. Professional Cyn reassembling before my eyes. But her smile remains—a private curve of lips meant just for me.

"How do I look?" she asks. "Properly composed PT, or woman who just had her career and relationship saved in one meeting?"

"You look beautiful. As always." I resist kissing her again. "And formidable."

Cyn moves to the door, hand on the knob. "See you at six?"

"Six." I nod. "I'll be the one not hiding how much I adore you."

Her cheeks flush, and her eyes hold mine steadily. "I'm counting on it."