Page 31

CHAPTER 30

GUNNAR

It absolutely killed me not to follow Emerson to the other room last night. She said she needed space to think. Respecting that was probably harder than any conversation I’m about to have with Coach. I pace the apartment living room at dawn, already dressed for morning skate. My phone is pressed to my ear as I beg, "Mom, please. I'm worried she'll disappear if I leave her alone."

"Of course I'll come over." Mom's voice is steady, calming. "But honey, Emerson's not her parents. She chose to leave them. She chose you."

"I know, but—" I break off as I hear movement in the hall. Emerson emerges from the guest room, circles under her eyes matching mine. She freezes when she sees me.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Mom says. "Go to practice. Let me handle this."

I end the call and watch Emerson drift toward the coffee maker. "My mom's coming over."

She nods, not meeting my gaze. "You don't have to have someone babysit me. I won’t talk to the media.”

"It's not—" I step toward her, but she flinches. "Please just talk to her. She knows about dealing with hockey press."

Another nod. I want to grab her, hold her, and make her understand that none of this matters compared to losing her. But I've never felt so helpless. I swallow a giant lump in my throat. Fuck this. The two of us always connect physically. “Emerson, I need a hug,” I tell her, dropping my bag to the floor and holding out my arms. “Please?”

Her face shifts to a more familiar expression. Not exactly happy, but less miserable. She steps into my arms and melts against me as I hold her tightly. I inhale the scent of her hair and murmur into it, “I need a replacement hat soon for my locker. The one I have is running out of Salty smell.”

“Gunnar.” She pulls her head back and looks into my face. “How can you be thinking of smelly hats right now?”

I shrug and pull her close again. “Because all I think about is you, babe. You and I … we are special. In the end, we will come through this and all the bullshit will fade away. I know it.”

Her voice is muffled against my shirt, and I loosen my grip just a little so she can repeat whatever she said. “I wish I had your confidence about it.”

I kiss the tip of her nose. “I will inject confidence into you all evening if you’d like.” She smacks my chest. However, the crass joke has the desired effect of cutting the tension a bit. “Please be here when I get back. Please?”

She blinks away tears and nods, and I kiss her on the cheek before grabbing my things and heading out the door. I just hope my mom arrives at the apartment before Emerson decides to bolt. For once, I’m relieved that she doesn’t drive.

My own drive to practice is a blur. I'm barely inside the door when the twins materialize beside me.

"These haters are out of their minds," Tucker says, flipping off his phone and throwing it in his cubby.

"Total bullshit," Alder adds. "Everyone knows you're gone for Salty."

I start suiting up, grateful for their presence. "Brian thinks her father planted it."

"Fucking hell." Tucker slams his locker shut. "That's some next-level toxic shit. Not to mention, Ashley and Thompson never did anything to deserve that. That’s really fucked up, man.”

I nod. The three of us work on our pads, but the twins are finished well before me since they have less gear.

"Want us to have a talk with Em’s dad?" Alder cracks his knuckles. "Set the record straight?"

Despite everything, I almost smile. "Let's not add assault charges to this mess."

Grentley's sneer cuts through our conversation. "Trouble in paradise, Stag?" He stalks into the room, leaning against his locker, already suited up.

"Not now, man." I focus on my gear.

"Just saying, if you can't handle the pressure, maybe you should step back. Let someone more...professional take the net."

My brothers tense, but I keep my voice steady. "My game speaks for itself."

"Does it?" Grentley pushes off his locker. "Because all I'm hearing is drama about you and Weber. Real professional, going after a married woman?—"

Tucker lunges, but I grab his arm. "He's not worth it."

"Listen to your brother, little Stag," Grentley smirks. "Wouldn't want any more bad press.”

I can’t take his shit for another second, but I know I can’t lay a hand on him like I typically would if another hockey player pissed me off. Not under this kind of scrutiny. “What the hell’s your problem, man? We’re on the same team.”

He huffs, a derisive, sarcastic sound. “You’re like a fart, Stag. Wafting in, causing chaos. Gone a few minutes later.” He bangs his stick on the ground for emphasis and stalks out of the locker room.

Practice is brutal. Every save feels like warfare, and every missed shot feels like failure. Not to mention, each time Grentley and I switch off, he either spits at me or mutters shit about me having a wandering dick. Coach's whistle finally ends the torture, and then Brian's waiting by my locker.

"We need to talk." He jerks his head toward the office. "Coach wants to meet."

I strip off my gear in silence while Brian paces. "Look, kid. This could go either way. Coach might bench you to avoid drama, or?—"

"I don't care." The words surprise us both. "I mean, I care about hockey. But Emerson matters more."

Brian studies me. "You really love her, don't you?"

"Yeah." I finish taking off my pads. "I do."

Brian sniffs. “I wasn’t expecting that, kid.” He sniffs again. “I think you have to shower, G Stag. Hop to it. I’ll work on some shit while you’re in there.” He shakes his phone at me and starts tapping away at the screen. I hurry to scrub myself off and then yank on some team sweats.

Brian slides his phone back in his pocket, and we make our way to Coach’s office.

When we enter, the massive, balding man is behind his desk, looking grim. "Sit down, Stag."

I do. Brian hovers by the door—coach grunts.

"Here's the thing." Coach leans forward. "You're playing solid hockey. Better than I've seen. But this press shit? It's fucking with my strategy. I can't have my goalies distracted by tabloid drama."

"I understand, sir."

"Do you? Because I want to keep starting you. I want this rotation to be a permanent thing. But I need the drama to stop."

I meet his eyes. "With all due respect, sir, my marriage isn't negotiable. If that costs me ice time?—"

"Jesus, kid." Coach actually laughs. "I'm not asking you to leave your wife. I'm asking you to help me manage this circus.” I squint, still not quite understanding.

“I swear to you, I’m keeping my head down off the ice. It’s just that my wife has people out to get her…”

Coach crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, we have to get in front of those people so they stop impacting my people. Got me?”

I nod, feeling miserable. The press and their projected image of me has dictated a lot about my life for the past month. It’s exhausting. I don’t want to do it anymore. I want to play hockey, make love to my wife, and maybe cuddle some damn dogs. I listen as Coach reiterates that I need to focus on my mental game, especially if I want to maintain this tandem goalie rotation. He says, “Brian has some ideas about getting ahead of the story. Are you in?"

I think of Emerson, alone and hurting, and of my brothers, ready to fight for me. My mother is probably making Emerson tea right now and sharing war stories about hockey culture.

"I'm in. But Emerson comes first."

Coach nods. "That's fine. Now let's figure out how to shut these vultures up so I can focus on winning some damn games."

Brian cracks his knuckles and steps forward but doesn’t sit. "First step is getting in front of this. The milk campaign is actually perfect timing."

"How so?" I lean forward, interested despite my exhaustion. Coach growls, clearly not wanting to talk about milk or anything off-ice.

"Family-focused ads with you and Emerson. Show the real story - young couple, whirlwind romance, now supporting each other's dreams. Her work with those music kids? Golden. And Ashley's husband is willing to go on record saying this is all bullshit."

Coach grunts approval. "Thompson's a stand-up guy."

"We need to be strategic, though." Brian pulls out his phone. “I think we do day-in-the-life posts nonstop. Show Emerson at that music school, you visiting the hospital kids. Real stuff, not staged PR garbage."

I purse my lips. “I have zero time to be posting to social media.”

Brian snorts. “Obviously, G-Stag. We have people for that. Hell, the Fury has people for that.” Coach nods in agreement.

I scratch at my patchy beard. “I don’t think Emerson wants to put the kids in the spotlight that way. It’s kind of creepy, right? Plus who even knows if those kids have photo releases and shit.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “We can take care of the paperwork, baby. Better than hiding. Plus..." Brian grins. "Those orchestra board members who've been hassling your father-in-law? They're very interested in hearing about innovative music education programs. Especially programs with gender parity and diverse performers.”

I start to see where he's going. "You want to use Scale Up to hit back at her father?"

"Sometimes the best defense is shining a light on good work." Brian stands. "But first, you need to make sure your wife is on board. None of this works if she's not all in."

I nod, already reaching for my phone. "I need to get home."

"Go." Coach waves me off. "Sort your shit out. I need my goalie focused. Remember, G Stag. Grentley is focused as fuck."

As I head for the door, Brian calls after me. "And G Stag? We’re scheduling a puppies and pucks charity event next week. Hard to look like a homewrecker when you're adopting shelter dogs with your wife."

For the first time since seeing that article, I actually smile. "Now that... that might actually work."