Page 77 of Pucking Daddy

Expedited

The arena is already buzzing when I arrive.

Reporters cluster near the main entrance, cameras flashing as I walk past without comment. Security has doubled over the last few days—Simone’s doing, probably—and they form a corridor through the press scrum that gets me inside without incident.

There’s so much going on—the headlines about Zara and me, the custody battle—but right now, the only thing I can think about is last night. My not-date with Zara.

The way she leaned in, so trusting, like she expected me to kiss her.

And I wanted to. God, did I want to.

But I knew, the moment we left the restaurant, that she wasn’t entirely herself. Not drunk, but definitely tipsy. She never would have acted that way completely sober.

Which means the moment wasn’t even real.

And I had to turn her down.

“She wasn’t sober,” I mutter under my breath as I enter the locker room.

My players are already suited up, moving through their pre-practice routines with focused energy.

Nate appears at my elbow as I head toward the ice. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Nate isn’t deterred by my brush-off. “I saw the headlines,” he says.

"Everyone's seen the headlines."

"Fair point." He falls into step beside me, clipboard in hand. "How are we handling it?"

"Simone has a plan. Press availability after practice, controlled Q&A, then we move on."

"I meant with the team."

Nate lowers his voice. "They're buzzing, Coach. Speculation, gossip—you know how locker rooms work. Some of these guys are worried about what a distracted head coach means for the season."

I stop walking. Turn to face him fully. "Am I distracted?"

Nate holds my gaze without flinching. One of the things I appreciate about him—he doesn't back down from hard conversations. "You tell me."

The honest answer is yes. The answer I give him is: "I've got it handled."

"That's not what I asked."

"It's what I'm giving you."

We stand there for a moment, the ice behind us already marked with practice lines, players warming up in loose circles. I can feel the weight of attention from every corner of the rink.

Jake Morrison catches my eye from across the ice.

The veteran captain gives me a subtle nod—acknowledgment, solidarity, the silent language of men who’ve weathered their share of media storms. I nod back.

"Neutral-zone regroups," I say finally. "Then power-play reps. I want Morrison leading the second unit today—his setup passes have been sloppy."

Nate scribbles on his clipboard. "And if someone asks about the photos?"

"They won't."