45. Steele
STEELE
T he locker room hums with post-practice energy.
Guys are peeling off gear, towels are being snapped, and someone’s speaker is blasting a mix of throwback rap and classic rock.
The smell of sweat and wintergreen fills the air, and the laughter that bounces off the walls feels more like a relief than routine.
For the first time all week, my mind feels calm.
Not because the noise has died down, but because I left it all on the ice.
I tug off my sweat-soaked jersey, the fabric sticking to my back like a second skin, and toss it into my locker. My muscles are fatigued in the best way.
Wrung out, sore, and spent.
But my head?
Clear.
What helps more than the adrenaline rush is the support, unspoken but solid, from the guys around me.
Earlier, Knox clapped me on the shoulder as he passed by and said, “Don’t sweat it, Cap. People love the drama. It’ll blow over in no time.”
Laiken, in his usual stoic way, stood in the corner, taping his stick. When I walked by, he looked up just long enough to say, “You’re good. We know what kind of man you are. Let the bullshit run its course.”
Their quiet confidence in me hit harder than I expected.
This team and these guys have my back.
And that means everything.
I nod at Oliver and Jaxon, who are mid-argument about whether a protein shake qualifies as lunch. River’s got his feet up, already chugging one, as if that settles it.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and push out into the hall. My phone buzzes in my pocket just as a familiar voice calls out from behind me.
“Sanderson.”
I glance up and find Hugh striding my way. The team owner is dressed to kill in a tailored navy suit that probably cost more than my first car. He’s all smooth edges and sharp confidence, but today, he looks almost pleased, which is a far cry from his expression the other morning in his office.
He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Glad you came around and talked to her. I knew that was the route to take.”
My brows pull together. “Talked to who?”
“Lilah,” he says, glancing at his silver Rolex. “The interview should be starting any minute. And doing it here at the arena was a smart PR move.”
My stomach plummets. “What interview?”
Hugh’s eyes narrow. “The one Rina scheduled a couple hours ago. You didn’t talk to her about it?”
No. No, I fucking didn’t.
And I had no intention of bringing it up either.
Because she shouldn’t have to go on record to explain what’s between us to the world. Not after everything she’s already been through.
Not after I swore I wouldn’t put her in that position.
With my jaw locked tight, I drop my bag to the floor and pivot without so much as a goodbye. My feet move quickly, eating up the distance to the conference room where all the media crap usually takes place.
I shoot Rina a text.
Then another.
But there’s no response.
Fuck.
As soon as I round the final corner, I hear the calm and polished voice of a woman and then Lilah’s.
Instead of hesitating, I shove open the doors, and the room goes silent as heads snap in my direction.
The cameraman freezes, his lens still mid-adjustment.
The reporter blinks like she’s just been caught red-handed.
And my sweet girl sits in the chair, looking wide-eyed and nervous.
What pisses me off the most is that she’s alone.
“If someone’s going to speak for us,” I say, striding into the room, “then it’s going to be both of us. As a couple.”
Lilah’s lips part slightly, as if she can’t believe I just busted in here. The last thing I’m going to do is leave her to face this mess alone. I grab a chair from the side of the room and carry it over, placing it directly next to hers before dropping down and slipping her hand into mine.
“You good, lucky charm?” I ask quietly.
She nods, eyes glassy with emotion. “Yes.”
Unable to help myself, I lift her hand and press a kiss against her knuckles. “We’ll get through this together. Understand?”
Her lips tremble into a smile. “Thank you for being here.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. And no one else I’d rather be with.”
And that’s the truth.
The reporter clears her throat, trying to gather her bearings. “Mr. Sanderson, I didn’t realize you were?—”
“Hi, Chandra,” I cut in smoothly. “Thanks for making time. We’re ready to talk.”
She glances between us, then gives a signal to the cameraman, and the red light glows to life.
One at a time, she asks the hard questions.
Are we in a relationship?
What happened in the photo?
Was there consent?
I let Lilah speak first because her voice matters and she deserves to be heard in her own words. It’s only when she’s finished that I lean forward and look straight into the lens.
My voice is steady.
Controlled.
But every syllable is wrapped in truth.
“What people saw in that photo wasn’t violence.
It was intimacy. It was private. And it was real.
” I pause, squeezing Lilah’s hand. “This woman isn’t just my best friend, she’s the one I love.
The same person I’ve loved since college.
Whether she realized it or not, it was always her.
And no matter what happens in the future, it will always be her. ”
Lilah lets out a shaky exhale beside me, and her grip tightens in mine.
The camera keeps rolling, but all I see is her.
And all I feel is the truth of my words. Raw and out in the open, no longer hiding between stolen glances and half-finished sentences.
It’s us against the noise.
Us against the narrative.
Us against the world.
And after a decade of friendship, it finally feels like we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.