23 - Aiden
Aiden
The hallway leading to the press room closed in on me as I hustled to keep up with Holly’s long strides.
Her confident, purposeful energy did little to calm my nerves, although she’d been trying her best for the past half hour.
I gripped the laminated notes as though her tips would seep into my brain by osmosis.
Possible questions. Acceptable answers. Bullet points.
She promised I’d be fine if I just said exactly what she told me, word for word.
“I’m not like the others,” I said as we turned the corner. The gaping doors from the press room took on the air of a horror movie, beckoning me into its bowels. “Mason and Landon, even Grayson is a natural.”
“Deep breath,” she said, patting my back. Although I realized soon after that it was her way of rushing me along, not a sign of reassurance. “There’s no such thing as a natural. Mason was a bumbling fool before I got hold of him. You’ve got this.”
I wanted to believe her, but it was hard to think of a time when Mason couldn’t charm a room full of cameras without breaking a sweat. Me? I was already imagining all the ways I was going to trip over my tongue and fumble the whole presser.
My phone pinged in my pocket, and I grabbed it out of my pocket, heart in my throat. But it wasn’t Sage surprising me with a text from an airport saying she caught an earlier flight home.
“Eyes on me, Santos,” Holly said. “You stall now, and the press will smell fear. They live for it. Also, put that thing on silent.”
I nodded and promptly did as I was told. Glancing over the first line of my notes sent my anxiety into overdrive. “I’m happy with the win, grateful to my teammates for having my back, and focusing on the next game.”
Idiotic, in its simplicity, but I couldn’t seem to make it stick.
Holly shoved the door open before I could think of a single excuse, and my feet froze at the threshold.
Cameras, flashes, reporters leaning forward with pens poised, microphones stretching like tentacles toward me.
The energy of it all pressed in without filter, and I felt like I was standing on the edge of the ice during a penalty shot, except the puck was replaced by every journalist in the city staring straight at me.
Sage should’ve been here. Her dry, biting commentary would’ve cut through my panic.
Her perspective would have hurtled me right back down to earth.
Instead, she was a thousand miles away, wrapped in hotel room silence and convention chaos, probably scrolling through gossip rags on her phone, hating all of this in a way that made my gut twist tighter than a playoff OT.
Holly nudged me forward. “Keep it moving. You’re up.”
The press room door swallowed me, and the weight of all those lenses and expectant faces slammed into my chest. This was a different kind of game. Not the ice, not the roar of the crowd. This was the behind-the-scenes beast of professional hockey. And right now, it had me pinned.
The presser itself was a minefield. My brief with Holly had her drilling me, feeding me lines, reminding me over and over to stay composed.
But it came to nothing with how relentless the reporters were.
Before the official start, a few had already fired questions at me about the article that had gone viral.
Holly caught my eye from where she stood across the room, and shook her head firmly no.
So I kept my mouth shut, and waited for things to move along.
Coach started strong and took control off the bat. “Let’s focus on the game, people. Keep it professional.”
Two minutes in, and every question had veered into the other stuff. The “Purple Rose incident,” as they called it. My mystery woman, and why I was keeping her secret. Was she married?
One reporter kept pressing, “How did she react to your win? Was she at the game last night?”
“You’re in the wrong place if you’re expecting gossip,” Coach said. “I have reams of notes on my selection for our next game. Any of you interested in that?”
I tried to steer things back, talking about the team’s strategy for round two, my promotion to first-line center, even dropped a few generic platitudes about teamwork and staying sharp. Every time I thought I’d gotten traction, another reporter went rogue.
“Just give us a name.”
“You know we’ll find out everything in another day or so.”
“What’s the big secret?”
Something inside me snapped. I leaned into the mic, keeping my tone casual but firm, eyes on the cameras, letting it roll out naturally. “Her name’s Sage. She’s a talented tattoo artist, not married, and she hates hockey.”
Coach shot me a glare that could freeze pucks in midair. Holly’s eyes flared from the side. I didn’t know how else to respond. They weren’t going to drop it until I’d given them something.
“Okay, you got what you wanted,” Coach said, standing up. “Our time here is over.”
He dismissed the room with a wave of his hand, ignoring the click of cameras and disappointed groans that rippled through it. I sat a second longer, not sure if I should leave or not, but Holly jerked her head at the door and I jumped up.
Sage’s number was up and dialing before I cleared the doorway.
But it just rang a few times, then went to voicemail.
I looked around, expecting Holly to descend on me about tanking the presser, but she was across the hall, typing furiously on her phone.
Clearly defusing the bomb in real time before she got hold of me.
Then Grayson appeared, moving through the small crowd milling around with that easy stride of his.
“I blew it.”
Grayson gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t take it too seriously. You’ll get used to it. The game’s what matters. And the Hollies of the world handle everything else.”
“Oh, good. Captain’s here too,” Holly said, suddenly popping up at my side.
Grayson shot a wink in her direction. “Heard you and Hunter are enjoying the new toy.”
“I’m gonna kill that man.” Holly’s cheeks flared.
I gave a nervous laugh. It felt weird being this deep inside the team, to be in on private jokes and stuff. Especially while still feeling like a total outsider.
Holly clapped her hands together and shook the energy back to focus. “Okay, team appearance at the Mission Valley charity event in a few days. I already have four of you flaking out, so I expect the first line to be there at least. Make a good show.”
“I’m sure Landon’s looking forward to raising some money for his girlfriend’s hospital,” Grayson said with a smirk.
“I, uh, I think it’s best if I give it a skip.”
Holly wasn’t impressed at all.. “Are you kidding me right now?”
I shifted my weight, unsure where to look, bouncing from her to Grayson. “I’m no good with public stuff. You just saw—”
“You don’t have a choice,” she interrupted, eyes hard. “I can only do so much, Aiden. It’s your job to make sure you get ‘good with public stuff’ because you’re the team’s newest center sensation. The spotlight’s only going to get hotter.”
Grayson laughed, clearly entertained by my attempt to weasel out of it. “Better to just go with the flow, man. In a fight with Holly, you’ll always lose.”
Her expression softened just a fraction, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
“Thank you,” she said, then her phone rang, and she was gone, whisked off to whatever crisis demanded her attention next.
“Don’t stress,” Grayson said. “I’ve got your back.”
I nodded, gratitude sneaking in. Then my phone buzzed, and I swiped at it without looking.
Sorry I missed your call. Flight just landed.
My chest eased out instantly. Sage was back home. Relief, heat, everything mixed into one sharp spike of happiness.
“Catch you around,” I said, already moving, needing out of the hallway, out of the noise, and somewhere I could actually breathe.
*
The take-out boxes were warm between us, steam curling up and fogging the low-hung pendant light in Sage’s living room.
I had set them on the coffee table, a small victory of order in the middle of the clutter that made her apartment feel like home.
She dug into her noodles like she hadn’t eaten in days, eyes bright as she took me through her time in Denver.
“So,” I said, when the conversation had reached a natural lull. “There’s this charity gala happening in a few days. The team has to make an appearance.”
“Ooh, fancy.”
“I want you to be my date.”
She paused mid-bite, looking at me like I’d grown antlers. Then her lips twitched. “Your date? As in you want me to put on a dress and heels?”
I’d never thought about that part. “Now that you mention it… I’d kinda love to see you all dressed up.”
Sage tilted her head, amusement flickering across her face. “Well, I’m happy to go with you, but just so we’re clear, I am by no means a WAG.”
I laughed at the mention of the term, but more her tone of voice when she pushed it out. “Promise. No WAG-ing. I just want you there. You, looking amazing, in a dress and heels. You wear them, don’t you?”
Sage rolled her eyes and waved a hand like the concept was offensive. “It’s my sacrifice to keep the male population from imploding. Trust me. They wouldn’t be able to handle me in a dress.”
“You make a solid argument.”
She smirked and shoved a forkful of noodles in her mouth, chewing with deliberate defiance. I felt a rush of relief I hadn’t realized I needed. She was taking this viral fame thing with a pinch of salt, exactly like I’d hoped.
I leaned over and kissed her, her mouth tugging into a grin before our lips met fully. Noodles, sauce, the warmth of the room—it all blurred behind the simple gravity of her. My hand cupped the side of her face, and she leaned into me, lips moving against mine, breath quick, pulse skipping.
We lost track of the take-out boxes, the gala, any sign of an outside world as our mouths properly claimed each other in the quiet of her living room. The first real kiss since she’d left for Denver.
Then her phone rang.
Sage sighed and grabbed her phone, but then her face instantly dropped. My eyes flicked to the screen.
Mom.
She just stared at the name there without answering, her body tense and stiff beneath me.
I pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “It’ll be okay. I’m here.”
She exhaled, a long quiet breath, then nodded almost imperceptibly. I rolled off her, lying down beside her on the couch, but pulling her close so she could feel my steady presence.
“Hi.”
A pause. “I guess so.”
Another pause. “I guess so. Fine.”
She set the phone down and snuggled into me, her head wedged under my chin as her fingers traced idle patterns across my chest. I couldn’t see her face, so had no idea what she was thinking or feeling.
“Well?” I asked gently.
She lifted her head just enough to give me a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Looks like I’m having lunch with my mother tomorrow.”