Chapter 34
Lance
Coach was staring at his wristwatch the second Lance walked into the dressing room. “Aaaaaand he made it, with less than ten seconds to spare.”
Lance, and everyone else in the room, breathed a collective sigh of relief. The punishment for being late? Missing the game. Which really would've put a damper on his night, all things considered.
But Lance was in an exceptionally good mood. The day had been a roller-coaster—from thinking Paige hated him to seeing the look on her face when he showed her Irie's bedroom. And who could forget the sweet little kiss they'd shared in his bedroom?
He wanted her so bad, and he wanted her for the rest of his life.
And he wanted her to know that, too.
Tonight would be the night—all he had to do was make sure that the Brawlers won this game.
Lance took the center of the room. “Listen up, boys! We're winning this game, alright? I've got my girl sitting front row, with my daughter and my sister, too.”
The team shot confused glances around the room. “Wait, did he just say his daughter?” “Uh-huh, that's what I heard.” “Something you wanna tell us, Lance?”
Lance shook his head. “Yeah, I just told you. I've got a daughter, alright? Her name's Irie, she's fifteen months old, and she's the most beautiful baby I've ever seen. So this is a big game for me. Don't let me down. Battle hard out there. I need this one, boys.”
The boys grunted and grumbled in agreement, and then an unquestioning cheer broke out among them: “For Coots!”
Then the door to the dressing room swung open. In walked Mr. Tremblay with the real, flesh-and-bones Kip Sterling in tow.
“Oh, great,” Lance muttered. “Just the guy I needed to see.”
“You have a moment, Lance?” Mr. Tremblay asked. “Kip and I need to have a word with you.”
Lance stood from his stall, sneering at Kip. “Let's do it.”
The three men went to Mr. Tremblay's office at the top floor of the arena. Lance took a seat.
“As you can probably guess,” Mr. Tremblay began, “Kip filled me in that a woman claims she had your baby.”
Lance shook his head. “Her name is Paige. And she's not just claiming it. I know it's my daughter.”
“You're sure?” Mr. Tremblay said, his eyes widening.
“Positive.”
“But do you have the paternity test results?” Kip asked.
“Not yet. We took the test today.”
Kip sniveled. “Oh … well I suppose that's a start, at least.”
“But I'm telling you, that child is mine. Everyone who sees her knows it. And I knew it from the second I saw her. I'm telling you, there's a feeling a man has in his heart when he looks at his own child—”
“Oh, Lance!” Kip interrupted, doubled over in laughter and pounding his fist on the table. Apparently, he found that sentiment hilarious. Then he said rather abruptly, “Ten percent.”
“Ten percent what?” Lance asked, his eyes narrowing at the PR man.
“That's how many men are estimated to be raising what they think is their child, but is actually the offspring of another man.”
“Ten percent?” Lance repeated skeptically. “That number sounds pretty damn high to me, don't you think, Kip?”
Mr. Tremblay agreed. “Yeah, Kip, I have to agree with Lance. That can't be right.”
“Well, of course, it's difficult to get a truly accurate number, and some estimates are as low as one percent while others are as high as thirty percent.” He bristled, quick to sweep the shakiness of his data point under the rug. “But whatever the true number is, I'm quite sure those men would say the same thing you just did: that they know in their heart that the child is theirs. When in fact it is not.”
Lance sighed. “Look, man. I'm starting to get the feeling that this is something weirdly personal for you. I don't know what you've had to deal with in your own life, Kip, but—”
Mr. Tremblay waved his hand in the air. “Let's keep things professional, Lance, not personal.”
“Agreed.” Kip cleared his throat. “Lance, for your sake, I hope that paternity test shows you what you believe to know in your heart. Unfortunately, as far as the Brawlers are concerned, I'm afraid it doesn't make much of a difference.”
“The hell?”
Kip grabbed a wireless remote and clicked a button. The overhead projector flashed a series of bar graphs and pie charts onto the wall.
“After I first spoke with you about your situation, I immediately ordered several rounds of focus group testing to determine the best path forward.”
“Thank God for your focus groups,” Lance quipped.
Mr. Tremblay butted in. “Lance, please!”
Kip continued. “The result was overwhelming: even if the baby was yours and you welcomed it into your life, the news of a 'secret baby' would have a massively negative impact on your reputation.”
Lance rolled his eyes. “Of course it would. Because that's all we care about, right? Our reputations?”
“This doesn't mean you can't have a relationship with the baby or her mother, of course. Our research simply shows that letting the media know that you were an absentee father for a baby you didn't know about will only do further damage to your image. If the baby is yours, and you wish to keep it in your life, I would suggest a slow trickle of information. No announcements, no press releases.”
“It's no one's business,” Lance said, shaking his head.
“Exactly.”
“No—I mean—look. I don't care what the media says about me. Alright? But I'm not going to hide my life in fear of people finding out about it.”
Mr. Tremblay stiffened. “But, Lance—”
“I know, I know: but what about the captaincy? Look, you know me; you know I've wanted the C since I was a kid. But I'm not perfect, guys. I'm a damned good hockey player. That's what I am. I'm not some polished Hollywood actor, or some silver-tongued politician, or some puppet you can dance around the stage.”
Mr. Tremblay slunk in his chair. “But Lance, I've told you that ownership has concerns about—”
“I hate to say it, Mr. Tremblay, but if ownership doesn't like me for who I am … tough. I'm not going to hide my family for the sake of our corporate brand. If that means I have to give up the C? Okay. Fine. I don't want it. What kind of pushover would I be to put the team before my own family, anyway? Give the C to somebody else because I don't want it if it means I can't be myself.”
Lance shook his head, changing tracks. “Mr. Tremblay, you were one tough SOB when you played the game. I've heard the stories from your playing days. I heard about the time your coach scratched you from the game-time roster because you showed up to practice smelling like liquor—and so you went into his office and destroyed it with your stick.”
Mr. Tremblay smiled. “Heh, yes, but …”
“It was different back then. I know. Things didn't spread like they do today with social media. I'm just saying, I'm not this picture-perfect guy. No one is. And painting this fake life where everything is perfect, well, it just isn't me. I won't do it.”
Lance turned to Kip. “So, with all due respect, Kip, I don't think I'll be needing your services anymore.”
Kip shook his head. “Don't be ridiculous. That'd be a very big mistake, Lance.”
“I'm sure,” Lance said sarcastically. “Listen, if I ever need to clean up my image again, I'll be sure to hit up Sterling Image so you guys can save me with your outdated cat memes.”
Kip's face turned bright red at the insult. “That is not all we do …!”
“You're right—how could I forget the focus groups?” Lance stood from his chair. “You're fired, bud.”
Kip scoffed. “You can't fire me.” He turned to Mr. Tremblay. “I was hired by Mr. James—tell him he can't fire me!”
But Mr. Tremblay stalled, and Lance pounced. “Mr. Tremblay, you can tell Mr. James that I flat-out refuse to work with Kip anymore. If Mr. James has a problem with it, he can do whatever he thinks is best. You guys can trade me if you want. I don't care. I'm that serious.”
Mr. Tremblay's eyes grew with worry. “I—I don't think we'll have to trade you, Lance.”
“Good to hear.” Lance winked at Kip. “Anyway, I've gotta get back to the team. Enjoy the game, gentlemen.”
“Good luck tonight,” Mr. Tremblay said.
Kip silently fumed as Lance left.
But before he returned to the Brawlers dressing room, Lance dropped a surprise visit to the good people in the Arena Operations department.
“Hey, guys! Got a favor to ask.”