Page 95 of Offside for Christmas
"The video that destroyed Cole Hansen's career was a lie. A deliberate manipulation designed to protect three men who deserved prison, not protection. And while Cole's reputation was being destroyed, while teams dropped him and sponsors pulled out and the entire hockey world turned against him, he stayed silent. Not because he had anything to hide, but because using the full video meant putting me in the spotlight. Meant making me relive the worst night of my life for public consumption. Meant turning my trauma into his defense."
"So he didn't. He took the hit. Lost everything. And never once complained."
Cole's hands were shaking so hard he almost dropped the phone. He had to read the next part twice to make sure he was seeing it right:
"I stayed silent. Paralyzed by fear, by shame, by the weight of knowing that speaking up would mean making myself a target. But then I met Ellie Winters, a physical therapist in Vermont who was treating Cole's shoulder injury from that night. She helped me understand something crucial: Cole had given me the gift of choice. The choice to heal privately, to control my own story, to speak up only when I was ready. And now I'm ready."
Cole's heart stopped.
Ellie.
Ellie had helped Sarah with this.
He scrolled frantically through the rest of the article, looking for more mentions of her, and found it in Sarah's closing paragraphs:
"I want to thank Ellie Winters for her courage in reaching out to me, and for reminding me that silence protects our attackers, not ourselves. She helped Cole heal physically, butshe helped me heal emotionally. This article exists because of her."
Cole had to read it three more times.
Ellie had done this. She'd reached out to Sarah. Had helped her write this article. Had made sure Cole's name would be cleared.
While he was leaving. While he was driving away. While he thought she didn't care enough to fight for him.
She'd been fighting. The whole time.
His phone was ringing again. LA Kings. Then Chicago. Then Toronto. Then Boston.
His email was exploding with interview requests, contract renegotiations, apologies from teams that had ghosted him after the video went viral. ESPN wanted a sit-down interview. The NHL Commissioner's office wanted to talk. Even the Blackhawks—his old team—were reaching out.
His entire career—the one he'd thought was over—had just been handed back to him.
Cole stood in the parking lot of a Pennsylvania rest stop on Christmas morning, watching snow fall and listening to "Silent Night" play from somewhere, and felt absolutely nothing about any of it.
LA didn't matter. The NHL didn't matter. His reputation, his career, the contracts and interviews and second chances—none of it mattered.
Because Ellie had given him all of it back. Had fought for him in the only way she knew how. Reaching out to Sarah, making sure every detail was right—all to give him his future back.
Even though she thought that future didn't include her.
She'd let him go. Given him his career back. Made it possible for him to have everything he'd thought he wanted.
And in doing so, had proven exactly how much she loved him.
God, I'm an idiot.
Cole had been so focused on Ellie not asking him to stay, not fighting for them, not believing in him enough to take the risk. He'd been hurt and angry and convinced that if she really loved him, she'd have begged him not to leave.
But she had fought for him. Just not in the way he'd expected.
She'd fought by trying to give him his dreams back. By working with Sarah to clear his name. By making sure that when he left—because she'd convinced herself he was always going to leave—he'd at least leave with everything he deserved.
That wasn't pushing him away.
That was love. Selfless, terrifying, self-sacrificing love.
Just like he'd fought for her by unpacking his boxes, by choosing to stay, by trying to imagine a life in Evergreen Cove. They'd both been fighting. They'd just been speaking different languages.
Cole looked at his truck—packed with everything he owned, pointing toward LA and a future that suddenly felt empty.
