21. Brock

I stare at the text message from Tierney, my heart sinking as I read her threats once again. It's like a nightmare I can't wake up from, her words twisting like a knife in my gut. How did it come to this? I've worked so damn hard to get where I am, and now it feels like everything is slipping through my fingers.

I reach for my phone, fingers trembling as I dial my agent's number. This is it. I need to take control of the situation before it spirals even further out of hand.

The phone rings once, twice, before he finally picks up. "Brock, what's up?"

"Hey, I've got the texts to prove that Tierney is lying about everything."

There's a brief pause on the other end of the line, the weight of my confession hanging heavy in the air. "Do you have the texts? Send them over to me."

I quickly screenshot and send him the incriminating messages, feeling a flicker of hope ignite within me. Maybe this will be enough to clear my name, to salvage what's left of my career.

"There," I say, my voice strained with emotion. "That should prove she's lying. Can we make things right with the Bruins? Can we get them interested again?"

There's a long pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching out between us like a chasm. "I'll see what I can do, Brock. But this is serious. We'll need to do damage control, get ahead of it."

"Whatever it takes. I can't let her ruin everything I've worked for."

My agent's voice softens, sympathy lacing his words. "I know, Brock. We'll figure this out. I've got a friend who's a reporter. I'll have him reach out to you. We'll get the real story out there, set the record straight."

Maybe there's still a chance to salvage my reputation, to prove that I'm not the monster she's trying to make me out to be.

I'll do the interview and clear my name publicly. In the meantime, I'm going to make sure that Layla talks to me.

It's a gorgeous summer day. Breckin should be out of school and Layla should be home with him right now.

I pull up outside Layla"s house, my heart pounding with nerves. I know this won"t be easy, but I can"t keep avoiding the inevitable. I need to face Layla, to set things right between us.

As I step out of the car, I"m met with the sight of Layla and Breckin in the yard, their laughter echoing in the stillness of the beautiful day. They"re playing with a garden hose, Layla spraying Breckin as he runs around squealing. Their faces are flushed with exertion and joy, and for a moment, I"m struck by the simple beauty of the scene.

I approach them slowly, my footsteps muffled by the grass beneath my shoes.

"Layla," I call out, my voice tentative. "Can we talk?"

She turns towards me, her expression guarded. "Not now, Brock. We"re kind of in the middle of something here."

I swallow hard, my resolve faltering for a moment. "Please. It"s important. I won"t leave until we"ve had a chance to talk like adults."

Before she can respond, a commotion erupts behind me, the sound of raised voices cutting through the serene stillness of the winter afternoon. I turn to see Tierney marching towards us, a camera crew in tow, her face twisted with rage.

"Layla!" she shouts, her voice piercing the frosty air. "You think you can just steal my man and get away with it? I won"t let you ruin my life!"

Layla"s eyes widen in shock, her grip on Breckin tightening instinctively. I step in front of them, blocking them from the camera's view.

"Tierney, what are you doing here? This isn"t the time or place—" I hiss.

But Tierney cuts me off with a bitter laugh, her words dripping with venom. "Oh, I think it"s the perfect time and place. The whole world deserves to see what a homewrecker she is, and what a coward he is for cheating on me!"

This is a disaster, unfolding before my eyes in real-time. I reach out to Layla, desperation in my voice. "Layla, please, you have to believe me. I never cheated. She"s lying. I'm not engaged to her."

But Layla"s expression is unreadable, her gaze locked on Tierney with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "I don"t know what to believe anymore, Brock. This is all too much."

Before I can respond, Layla grabs Breckin"s hand and hurries towards the safety of the house, her movements frantic with fear. Breckin looks back at me, his eyes wide with concern, before disappearing inside with Layla.

"Tierney, this is ridiculous and not okay! I'll show these people right now the text you sent telling me that if I didn't take you back you'd make things worse for me." Her eyes widen before she rolls them.

I stand there, rooted to the spot, feeling utterly helpless. But then Breckin reappears in the doorway, his expression determined. "Mr. Brock, come inside!"

I glare at Tierney before I jog to the house and the opening that my little buddy just gave me.

"Breck," Layla sighs.

"Mama, it's crazy out there. Can't he just hang out until they're gone?"

"Okay," she replies with a forced smile.

I fist bump him as he grins up at me. "Want to go in the basement and play with my PlayStation?"

"Sure."

Layla walks away. Breckin grabs my hand and I follow him downstairs. The basement is a shrine to our shared love of hockey, the walls adorned with posters of Breckin's favorite players and shelves lined with trophies from his two years of hockey.

"Hey, that's me," I laugh as I point at one of the posters.

"Uncle Eric gave it to me. I have a bobblehead too."

"Oh yeah?" I laugh. "That's great."

"Mama says this is mine and Uncle Eric's man cave, she let us decorate it."

"I can tell. The two of you did a great job. Impressive setup you"ve got here, buddy."

Without missing a beat, Breckin leads me over to the gaming console, his fingers flying across the controller with practiced ease. "We"re gonna play some NHL, of course. You ready to get schooled?"

I chuckle, settling onto the couch beside him. "We"ll see about that. Bring it on."

For the next hour, we lose ourselves in the virtual world of hockey, trading goals and trash talk with equal fervor. It"s a welcome distraction from the chaos of the outside world, a chance to reconnect on a simpler level. And as we laugh and compete, I feel a sense of peace settle over me, knowing that no matter what happens, I"ll always have moments like these to treasure.

Eventually, Breckin sets down the controller, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Alright, enough of that. Time for some real action."

He leads me over to the makeshift net in the corner of the room, his movements fluid and confident. "Check this out, Mr. Brock. I"ve been working on my indoor hockey skills."

I watch in awe as he effortlessly maneuvers the puck, his shots precise and powerful. It"s clear that he"s put in the time and effort to hone his craft.

"Wow, Breckin," I say, unable to hide my admiration. "You"ve got some serious talent. Mind if I join in?"

Breckin grins, tossing me a stick. "Nope. Can we work on some passing drills?"

We spend the afternoon honing our skills, the sound of puck against wood filling the room with a comforting rhythm. It"s moments like these that remind me of the simple joys of life, the bond between father and son forged on the ice.

"I've got dinner ready," Layla calls from the top of the stairs.

The two of us make our way out of the basement. Layla and I lock eyes.

"The film crew is still out there, it's like they've camped out. I called the police department, hopefully, they can get rid of them."

"I'm really sorry about this."

She holds her hand up in the air and walks away.

Shoot, this is great.

The aroma of biscuits and gravy fills the air as we gather around the dinner table. Breckin"s eyes light up with excitement as he takes his seat, a grin spreading across his face.

"Biscuits and gravy? This is my favorite!" he exclaims, reaching eagerly for the serving dish.

"I haven't had this in forever," I laugh.

"We don't have it as much as he would like," Layla murmurs.

As we pass around the plates and pour generous helpings of gravy over fluffy biscuits, the conversation flows easily, the tension of earlier dissipating like steam rising from a pot. I catch Layla"s eye across the table, her expression softening as she watches Breckin dive into his meal with gusto.

"So, Layla," I begin, turning to her with a smile. "How was your day?"

She hesitates for a moment, her gaze flickering towards Breckin before meeting mine. "Oh, you know. Just the usual. Did you have a good day, buddy?"

"The best. I got to play with you and Mr. Brock. I hope we never go back to school."

"If you don't have school you can't play in the NHL."

"Awww, I forgot about that. Okay, we can go back to school in August."

"When did you start playing hockey, Breckin?" I ask.

"Last year was my first year on the youth league. Uncle Eric and Grandpa Jack have been teaching me forever. Uncle Eric bought me my first pair of skates."

"He did?"

"Yup. He always buys my skates. He says it's his favorite thing."

"That's great."

"Did Uncle Eric coach you last year too?"

"He tried, he didn't do well though."

"What do you mean?"

"Mama said he was having mini heart attacks every time someone came toward me.

"That tracks with his personality."

"He's much better this year. He can't really coach because we start the season before his season is over, but he helps as much as he can."

"You're pretty lucky to have him so close."

"He brought some of his friends to practice one day. We had so much fun."

"Friends?"

"Mr. Morgan, Mr. Jake, and Mr. Charlie."

"Some of the players. Wow, that's pretty cool. What little league team can say that?"

He shrugs and continues eating. "Mama says I'm going to be too big for my stick by the summer so we've been looking at new ones."

"What if you could have a brand new Bauer stick like the one your Uncle Eric and I use?"

"What?" he gasps excitedly.

"Brock," Layla interjects.

"I'm sponsored by them. It's not a big deal."

"This is the best day ever!" Breckin exclaims.

Breckin and I continue talking, mostly debating which is the best hockey stick on the market. For a five-year-old, he's incredibly intelligent.

The more we talk, I watch Layla"s guard slowly come down, her laughter ringing out like music in the warm glow of the kitchen, I feel a sense of gratitude wash over me. Tierney thinks she's pulling me closer, but she's only helping me grow closer with Layla and Breckin.

"Mama, can we watch a movie before my bedtime?"

"Absolutely, but you have to help with dishes first."

"Yes, Ma'am."

I cock an eyebrow. Is it normal for five-year-olds to do dishes because I don't know that I washed dishes until I was sixteen.

"Do you always help Mom with chores?"

"Yes, I have a chore board. Uncle Eric told me that Mama works so hard every day that it's not fair if she has to do everything. If I help it's more time I get to spend with her."

"Uncle Eric told you that?" Layla asks.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Surprising," she giggles.

She gets up from the table and walks into the living room. She comes back as Breckin and I are clearing the dishes.

"Are they still out there?"

"Yes."

Looks like they're not giving up easily. I'm not going to complain because it's getting me time with these two that I wouldn't have gotten otherwise.