Page 18 of One Pucking Secret
Coach leans forward, sighing, his voice softening just a touch—just enough to let me know he’s not completely oblivious. “Wyatt, I’ve heard about what’s going on. Look, I’m not the type to get into a guy’s personal life, but I know this PR stuff is weighing you down.”
I glance up, surprised. Coach isn’t one for heart-to-hearts.
He rubs his temple, clearly uncomfortable with this line of conversation, but pushes through. “I get that life outside the rink can be tough. Hell, I’ve seen it chew up guys and spit them out more times than I can count. But I need you to focus here. On the ice. That’s whereyou control things. The team’s depending on you. I believe in you, and I know you can pull through, so shake off the outside noise.”
I nod, jaw set tight. “Understood, Coach. It won’t happen again.”
“Good,” he grunts, returning to his usual businesslike tone. “We need you leading the charge this weekend.” He doesn’t give me an out. It’s not a suggestion. His tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. Without another word, he shifts his focus to his notebook, already scribbling down plays as if the conversation never happened.
“Count on it,” I say, but the words taste like sawdust.
He doesn’t even glance up, already absorbed in his notes. He’s done with the personal stuff, as expected. But there was something there, in that brief moment—a sliver of concern, the way only Coach could show it without making a big deal out of it.
Dismissed, I turn and exit back into the locker room’s relative privacy, his words echoing in my mind. He’s counting on me. And so is the team. I can’t let them down—not with everything hanging in the balance.
Alec smirks from his spot on the bench as I walk past, but I ignore it. Typical Alec. I’vegot enough on my plate without dealing with whatever his problem is.
I head toward the showers, not bothering to glance back. Stripping down, I step under the scalding water, letting it pound the tension from my shoulders. The rhythmic drumming of droplets against the tile drowns out the rest of the world, offering a brief escape from everything hanging over me. By the time I shut off the faucet, my skin is pink and heat radiates from my body.
Wrapped in a towel, I head back to my locker. Steam curls around me, mingling with the remnants of adrenaline and antiseptic spray. The room’s mostly empty, save for a few stragglers who give me a wide berth—my scowl is as effective as a Do Not Disturb sign.
That’s when Chloe barges in, green eyes ablaze, auburn hair a fiery halo around her determined face. She’s a tempest, a force of nature that commands attention.
“Out,” she barks at the remaining few, and they don’t argue, just grab their things and vanish. Now it’s just me and her, alone in the humid aftermath of practice.
I blink, a little taken aback. How the hell did she get in here? But then again, it’s Chloe—ofcourse she’d find a way in. She’s nothing if not determined.
“Chloe—” I begin, but the word hangs between us, heavy with questions and the undertow of something unsaid.
“Save it, Banks,” she snaps, her usual poise fraying at the edges. Her gaze locks on mine, fierce and unwavering, and I recognize the simmering anger of someone wronged.
“Talk to me,” I say, bracing myself for the storm about to break.
Chloe thrusts a tablet under my nose, the screen aglow with my own face—a moment frozen in time that I wish could melt away. The image is of me at a pool table at O’Malley’s, Zach’s beer clutched in my hand as he lines up his shot. The headline above it screams scandal, dragging my parents’ memory through the mud.
“Look at this,” she says, voice tight with controlled fury. Her finger jabs at the article, scrolling through paragraphs that paint a portrait of my past—one tarnished by tragedy and insinuation. The words sting, each syllable laced with venom: “Is Alcohol Addiction a Banks Family Curse?”
I feel a knot tightening in my stomach. “Damn it,” I mutter, the towel around my waistbunching as my hands clench into fists. “This is a lie.”
“Keep reading,” Chloe urges, her voice softening just slightly, but still tense.
The narrative twists deeper, recounting the accident that stole more than just headlines. It claimed lives—my mom’s and dad’s. It isn’t just their battles with the bottle, but the aftermath that haunts me and the young man on the other side of that collision, forever changed.
“I can’t believe they’d go this far,” I say, my voice strained, trying to process the fact that someone would use my parents’ deaths like this.
Chloe’s eyes narrow, a sharp edge to her tone. “Believe it. The media will dig as deep as they can.”
Before I can fully digest that, she swipes to another post—Sonia’s latest masterpiece of manipulation. She’s crafted a narrative so cunningly cautious, a labyrinth of legal loopholes. ‘Wyatt’s late-night antics have often led me to wonder,’ it reads, ‘about the true cause of his emotional outbursts.’
“Never,” I spit out, the word like acid on my tongue. “I never touched a drop, not even in—”
“I believe you,” Chloe cuts in, her green eyes locking onto mine. There’s no doubt there, nohesitation, just a fierce determination to fight this.
The locker room smells of sweat and the stale humidity of practice, but that all fades into the background. Chloe stands before me, ready to go to war. For me.
“Your meeting with MADD is set for Thursday,” Chloe says, her hands firmly on her hips, clearly ready for the resistance she knows is coming. “I jumped on this the second I found out, making calls, pulling every string I could on my way here. There’s also a local reporter eager to hear your side, to talk about your childhood, your parents, and to record you taking a stance against alcohol.”
I can almost see the narrative she’s crafting, painting me as the grieving son turned advocate. But the idea cuts too deep, reopening wounds I’ve kept buried for years.
