Page 26 of The Dating Coach (Hearts on Ice #4)

We'd been huddled around the TV in my room, dissecting Colorado team’s power play formations for this weekend's crucial match, when Frank's phone lit up. He glanced at the screen, and his usual smirk vanished.

"Shit," he muttered, then looked up at us. "Someone downstairs asking about Mia. Says he's investigating a missing person case."

The words hit me like a body check. My pen slipped from my fingers as I found Henry's gaze across the room. We'd talked about this scenario in hushed conversations, planned for it, but seeing it actually happen felt surreal.

"How long can you buy us?" I asked Frank, already standing.

"Five minutes, maybe ten if I'm creative."

"Do it." I turned to Henry, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Back exit. Get her to the safe house."

Henry was already moving before I finished speaking.

The team moved with practiced efficiency born from months of protecting our own. Jesse and Tyler shifted to block sight lines to the back door while Henry slipped out to find Mia in the study room. Marcus pulled up legal resources on his laptop, ready to document anything that happened.

I moved downstairs to find exactly what I'd feared – a middle-aged man in a cheap suit holding a laminated ID and a photo of Mia.

"Can I help you?" I asked, blocking his view of the house with my body.

"Tom Morrison, private investigator." He flashed his credentials like they meant something. "I'm looking for Mia Spears. Her parents are concerned about her wellbeing."

"Don't know anyone by that name," I said evenly. "This is a hockey house. We don't get many guests here."

His eyes narrowed. "That's interesting, because I have multiple witnesses placing her at this address. And you're Liam Delacroix, right? Dating her sister?"

"I date a lot of people," I lied smoothly. "Hockey player stereotype and all that."

"Mr. Delacroix, I'm not here to cause trouble. The Spears family just wants to know their daughter is safe. She's had... struggles with mental health. They're worried she might hurt herself."

The casual lie, the implication that Mia was unstable rather than escaping abuse, made my jaw clench. But I kept my expression neutral.

"Like I said, don't know her. But if you want to leave your card, I can ask around."

He studied me for a long moment, clearly not buying it. "You know harboring a runaway is a crime, right?"

"Good thing she's eighteen," I said before I could stop myself.

His smile turned predatory. "So you do know her."

"I know she's legally an adult," I corrected. "Hard to be a runaway when you're old enough to vote. Now unless you have a warrant..."

"I don't need a warrant to investigate," he started, trying to peer past me into the house.

"Actually, you do need one to enter private property," Marcus called from upstairs, laptop open to trespassing laws. "And fun fact – lying about someone's mental health status to gain information is defamation. Very sue-able."

Morrison's face flushed. Behind him, I noticed several of my teammates had emerged from the rooms, creating a casual but imposing presence around him. The implied threat – half the hockey team versus one middle-aged PI – wasn't subtle.

"This isn't over," Morrison said finally. "The family has resources. They'll keep looking."

"Let them look," I said. "They won't find someone who doesn't want to be found."

He left with more threats about legal consequences and moral obligations, but I barely heard them. The moment his car disappeared, I was calling Gemma.

"He was here," I said without preamble when she answered. "Private investigator. Asking about Mia."

"Is she—"

"Safe. Henry got her out. They're at the campus center." I ran a hand through my hair, adrenaline still coursing. "Gemma, this is escalating."

"I know," she said quietly. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

Just as I hung up, my phone buzzed again. Coach Jack's name flashed on the screen.

"Delacroix. My office. Now."

I made my way across campus, expecting a lecture about disrupting practice. Instead, when I arrived, he closed the door and leaned against his desk with a heavy sigh.

"Dr. Sarah called me," he said without preamble. "From the LGBTQ+ center. She wanted me to know what my players were doing – protecting that young woman."

"Coach, I—"

"I'm proud of you," he interrupted. "All of you. That's what a team does – protects its own. But son, this could get complicated. Legal complications. NCAA violations if they claim we're providing improper benefits."

"She's Gemma's sister," I said simply. "That makes her family."

"I understand that. But her parents clearly have resources if they've hired a PI. You need to be smart about this." He pulled out a business card. "My brother-in-law is a family lawyer. Specializes in cases like this. Call him."

I stared at the card, touched by the unexpected support. "Coach..."

"I've been doing this for thirty years," he said gruffly. "I've seen kids destroyed by parents who claim to love them. If that girl needs protecting, then we protect her. But we do it smart. Document everything. Consider legal options. And Delacroix?"

"Yeah, Coach?"

"Win this weekend. Nothing shuts up critics like victories."

I left his office feeling simultaneously supported and worried. The team had Mia's back, but how long before the pressure became too much? Before someone cracked and gave information to the PI?

I found Gemma at the campus legal aid office, surrounded by pamphlets about restraining orders and harassment law. She looked exhausted, stress etched in every line of her body.

"Hey," I said softly, not wanting to startle her.

She looked up, and the relief in her eyes made my chest tight. "He actually showed up. They actually hired someone to hunt her down like she's some criminal."

"We knew they might," I reminded her, settling beside her. "We're prepared for this."

"Are we?" She gestured at the legal documents spread before her. "Restraining orders require evidence of threat. Harassment charges need documentation. Everything takes time and money and—"

"Hey." I caught her hands, stilling their frantic movement. "Breathe. We'll figure it out."

"How?" The word came out broken. "I'm barely keeping my head above water with classes and swimming. Mia's terrified to leave the house. Now we have to worry about private investigators and legal battles and—"

"You don't have to do this alone," I interrupted. "That's what you keep forgetting. We have resources too."

She laughed bitterly. "What resources? I have student loans and a part-time job that barely covers groceries."

I took a deep breath, decision made. "I have a trust fund."

She went still. "What?"

"From my grandparents. Accessible when I turn twenty-two in two months." I squeezed her hands. "It's not millions, but it's enough. Enough for lawyers, for security, for whatever Mia needs to be safe."

"I can't take your money," she said immediately.

"You're not taking anything," I corrected. "I'm choosing to use resources I have to protect someone I care about. Someone we care about."

"Liam—"

"My grandmother set up that trust because she wanted me to have choices. To not be dependent on my father's approval or hockey's success. What better use than protecting family?"

"We're not your family," she protested weakly.

"Aren't you?" I challenged. "Mia teaches Frank calculus and beats Henry at cards. She has her own hook in the coat closet and opinions about which cereal we buy. You fall asleep in my bed more nights than not. If that's not family, what is?"

Tears slipped down her cheeks. "It's too much. You're already risking your career by being with me. Now you want to pay for—"

"I want to choose you," I interrupted. "All of you. Not just the easy parts. That means protecting Mia, fighting legal battles, facing down investigators, and whatever comes along with it."

She kissed me then, salt from her tears mixing with the desperation of the moment. When we broke apart, she rested her forehead against mine.

"I don't deserve you," she whispered.

"That's where you're wrong," I said firmly. "We deserve each other. We deserve happiness and safety and family that chooses us back."

My phone buzzed with a text from Henry: Mia's okay. Bringing her home. Frank's making comfort food.

"See?" I showed Gemma the message. "Family."

We gathered the legal pamphlets, armed with information if not solutions.

Walking back to the house, I felt the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders.

Not the burden my father had placed there – expectations of glory and achievement – but something I'd chosen.

Protecting people I loved, building a life on my own terms.

"I'll call the lawyer tomorrow," Gemma said quietly. "Start documenting everything. Maybe we can get ahead of this."