“That would probably be good for viewing. I can edit the footage on my phone though.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Coach growls. “I’d like to get out of here before midnight.”
I reach down for Whit’s hand. “C’mon, Whitbee, we’ll grab a drink and sit over there.”
We get settled in a couple of chairs by the closed glass doors that overlook the ice. I turn my back to the view and watch Coach take a seat, his back stiff, his face in that serious scowl he gets when he’s not happy with what we’re doing on the ice.
I’m glad I’m not the only one who isn’t happy about this turn of events. Then again, do I have the right to be pissed off about this?
It was my daughter who caused a media storm. A storm I don’t see blowing over even with these ‘control the narrative’interviews Cami insists will take the mystery out of my daughter’s revelation.
“Coach Alcott, your team is looking great on the ice. There doesn’t appear to be any friction or missteps for such a new team, and I have to assume the coaching staff has a lot to do with that. Has it been hard? Pulling it all together?”
“Not really. Ms. James and her scouts knew what they were doing when they picked each player on the team. That includes the coaching staff.”
“Let’s get the hard question over with. Were you upset when they named your assistant coach?”
Coach laughs. “Are you kidding me? Blake Watts was born to play hockey. She’s third generation in a family who is arguably hockey royalty, has three Olympic medals and coached the Canadian women’s gold medal team in the last Olympics. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want her at their side?”
“So you could say you’re a fan?” Cami asks with a smile.
“I’m a fan of winning. And I firmly believe Blake is one of the critical components of the Rogues’ determination to make the playoffs.”
“Is that a prediction, Coach?”
“Damn straight, it is.”
“I’m not sure others are such believers.”
“I’m sure they’re not. But here’s the thing, Oakley James might not have a history with hockey but she’s an extremely smart woman. She’s pulled together people with passion and one goal in mind. Winning. I have no doubt we’ll make the playoffs and if I were a betting man I’d say we’ll be taking that trophy home sooner than anyone predicts.”
A kick to my shin pulls my gaze from the interview to Whit. She’s holding her phone out and I can see she’s got something on the screen she wants me to see. I’m not sure I want to look. If it’s something to do with the post she put up that started this whole thing, I don’t know how I’ll react.
I know she didn’t mean to cause a drama or to out herself, orme, but she has to know we wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t been careless. She tips her head to indicate the device, and I reluctantly take it.
I steel myself for what I’ll read except it isn’t what I expect. It’s a message, although she hasn’t hit send, and I can see it’s to me.
W: I’m really sorry about what happened tonight. I honestly didn’t mean to tag you. It was an automatic response because that’s what you do on Instagram. You post a pic, add a comment and a billion different hashtags so people searching can find your post. It wasn’t until I got a message asking me how long I’d known you were my dad that I realized I’d really screwed things up. I didn’t delete the post like that reporter said but I did switch my account to private. I know what I’m going to ask next is going to probably piss you off more but I’d like to switch back to public. I’d like to have that post on there because I’m proud of you dad. I’m proud to be your daughter and I know you’ve kept me hidden to protect me but after next year I’ll be on my own and I don’t want to be a secret anymore. Not that that’s how you think of me but it’s how it seems. And yes, I know you always say it’s not what anyone else thinks, it’s what you or I think about us, except I want to tell the world I’m yours, that I’m proud of you. I want to show my pride in this team, in our life. I think I’m old enough to make that decision, but I won’t do it without your blessing.
Fuck. My eyes are blurry and my nose tingles with the emotion clogging my throat.
“Whitbee,” I murmur and reach for her hand.
This girl makes me so proud, so humble. She’s far more adult than she should be. I said in our interview that she was smart, but my daughter’s brain blows me away. I can’t take all the credit forthis incredible woman in front of me. Mama Dot had a lot to do with the way Whit turned out.
Hell, she’s the reason I’m the way I am too. Without that guidance in the early days of my daughter’s life, I’m sure I would have failed.
No. I know I would have failed.
Hitting send on the message, I hand Whit her phone and pull mine from my pocket. I keep it on silent from the minute I change into my gear before a game and don’t turn it back on until I leave the arena whether we’re at home or away. The earlier fiasco, and the fact I’m still at the arena means I receive Whit’s message without a sound.
Tapping in my passcode, I pull up her message and reply.
I’ll agree and respect any decision you make. I don’t know what I did to deserve you but I’m thankful every day that you are mine and if you want the world to know that I’m your dad I’m happy for you to do that any way you want to. I love you more than anything, Whitbee. I’m proud of you.
Mindful of the interview taking place across the room Whit reads my message and replies. This isn’t the first time we’ve communicated via text but it’s definitely the first time we’ve been in the same room doing it.
W: We should wait until Cami tells us what time the interview airs then post a few selfies on both our accounts.
