Chapter Twenty-Seven
Clay
The horn’s still ringing in my chest as I shove through the gate and head down the tunnel, the boards rattling behind me. The crowd’s roar follows, that damn chant pounding in my head like a bruise that won’t fade.
Hot-head Bar-lowe. Hot-head Bar-lowe.
No matter how far I walk, I can’t shake it.
We won. The guys played hard and executed everything we’ve been working on. But all I can focus on are those cheap hits. The refs were looking the other way the whole night. The Hawks' bench was smirking like they got what they wanted every time. My jaw locks so tight I can practically taste blood.
The tunnel feels colder than the ice, but the heat of my skin is molten. My breath comes out hard, fogging the air. The cinderblock walls close in, every sound echoing too loudly around me.
I rip my clipboard from under my arm and hurl it against the wall. It smacks the concrete, papers scattering across the floor, the sound sharp enough to split through the noise in my head. I drag a hand down my face, but it does nothing to cool me down.
I’ve been here before. I’ve heard the locker room talk and the condescending comments in post-game pressers. I’m one breath away from losing it. I can already hear how they’ll write it if I do.
The words loop in my head until I want to tear my hair out by the roots. Every article, every smug voice waiting for me to fail.
And God help me, part of me wants to give in just to let them prove they were right.
The sound of footsteps behind me breaks through my thoughts, and I turn, my chest still heaving.
Tessa slips past the staff and trainers, moving quickly toward me. Her hair’s a little wild from the crowd, cheeks pink from the cold, scarf loose around her neck. She’s out of place here in this dimly lit tunnel, but something about seeing her calms me in a way no one else could.
“Don’t,” she says, cutting straight through the noise in my head. “Don’t you dare give them what they came for. Don’t you let them tear you down.”
I go still. My pulse pounds so hard it hurts. Every muscle in me is strung tight, but her words douse the fire in me like cold water over flame.
She didn’t flinch when she saw the heat from the anger rolling off me. She doesn’t care about the headlines or my past screwups. She looks at me like I’m more than the rumors and my tarnished reputation make me out to be.
My shoulders drop, heavy with the weight of it. The tension bleeds out of me, one breath at a time.
“Jesus, Tess…” My voice comes out rough. “You don’t know how close I was.”
Her hand stays on my arm, warm against the chill seeping through my jacket. She steps closer, and the faint scent of her shampoo, mixed with vanilla, cuts through the stale air of sweat.
For the first time all night, I can breathe. The noise from the arena fades behind the concrete walls. My pulse slows, and my chest loosens.
“You’ve got that look again, Sug,” I murmur, the nickname slipping out before I can stop it. My mouth pulls into a smirk. “The one that makes me forget I’m supposed to keep it together.”
Her lips twitch, fighting a smile. The light in her eyes dims, like she wanted to be happy before her reason for finding me comes back to the center.
“Clay…” she says softly, fingers tightening around my sleeve. “Before you go out there, there’s something you need to know.”
The shift in her voice makes me straighten. “What is it?”
She glances toward the end of the hallway, where staff and media are already gathering. When she looks back, her throat works like she’s bracing herself.
“The secret’s out,” she says quietly. “About us.”
For a second, I don’t move. “What do you mean, ‘out’?”
“A reporter, the one from the gala, got hold of the story,” she says. “Someone must’ve tipped him off. He ran the story right before the game started. If you’ve checked your phone, I’m sure you’ve already got messages. My mom, dad, and Steven have all texted me. Evan, too.” She adds.
I blink and my stomach drops. “Jesus.”
She nods, guilt written all over her face. “They’re going to ask about it. About me. About your brother.” Her voice breaks a little. “I just didn’t want you walking in there blind.”
The hallway feels smaller now, weighed down by all the things she won’t say. My jaw works as I drag a hand through my hair, the adrenaline from the game sparking all over again, but differently this time.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “For telling me.”
She takes a step closer, like she’s afraid to let me go. “Whatever you say in there, just—don’t let them twist it. Don’t let them make it something it’s not.”
I nod, forcing a breath that doesn’t quite settle. “Guess it’s time to face it head-on.”
Her eyes meet mine. “You always do.”
***
The press room buzzes with tension, the kind that crawls under your skin.
The lights are too bright, hot against my face, and everything smells like stale coffee and cheap cologne. Microphones line the table in front of me, cameras clicking in rhythm, waiting. Watching.
It’s not excitement in the air—it’s something sharper.
Like they’re all waiting for blood.
I roll my shoulders once and press my hands flat on the table, trying to look calm. My body’s still wired from the game, adrenaline burning under my skin, but I lock it down.
The first few questions are easy ones. Things like our zone coverage, line changes, and power play adjustments. Stuff I could answer in my sleep. I keep it professional and to the point. I’m not giving them anything they can twist into a story.
Across the room, the AD gives me a small nod, but I can feel him watching, waiting to see which version of me showed up tonight. The one who loses his temper, or the one who finally figured out how to keep it in check.
And then I see him.
Second row. Same grin. Same smug gleam in his eyes. Trevor—the reporter who’s been hounding me for a comment since I left the NHL. The same guy who ambushed me at the Christmas gala.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees like he’s been counting down to this moment.
“Coach Barlowe,” he says, smooth and practiced. “That little flare-up at the bench tonight looked… familiar. Do you think Kolmont’s taking a risk putting their trust in you?”
A low ripple moves through the room. A mixture of amusement and curiosity. I can feel the shift, the subtle lean of every camera in my direction.
The hit lands. I absorb it.
My jaw tightens once before I nod. “You’re not wrong,” I say evenly. “It did look familiar. Passion tends to leave a mark.”
I let the silence hang, just long enough for his smirk to slip. “But there’s a difference between losing control and leading with it. My players stayed locked in, we stuck to our system, and we earned the win. That’s what Kolmont brought me here to do.”
Cameras flash brighter. Someone lets out a low whistle. Across the room, the AD hides a smile behind his hand.
But the reporter isn’t done. They never are.
He leans back in his chair, stretching like a man who knows he’s about to light a match.
“Of course,” he drawls, all smug satisfaction.
“I’ve heard from sources that say your passion isn’t limited to the rink.
Word is, you’ve been seeing a Ms. Tessa St. James—your brother’s ex, if I’m not mistaken.
Not exactly the redemption story Kolmont had in mind, huh?
Your family drama spilling into the locker room? ”
The room erupts.
Gasps, murmurs, cameras firing rapidly. Phones rise, recording every second.
Beside me, the players shift in their seats, eyes flicking my way. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the AD’s jaw tighten.
And me? I don’t move. Not a twitch. Not even a breath.
Inside, I can feel the heat building in my chest. The familiar burn that used to send me straight over the edge. They think they know me. They’re waiting for me to hand them a headline. Hothead Barlowe loses it again.
But not this time.
I clear my throat. “My personal life isn’t your story to tell,” I say, voice low but clear enough to cut through the noise.
“But since you brought it up, I’ll keep it simple.
I’m proud of the people in my corner, and they have nothing to do with my job performance.
If you want to talk about the game, talk about the win. Otherwise, I think we’re done here.”
The room stills.
No one moves. No one breathes.
I hold his stare across the rows of flashing cameras until he looks away first. Just barely—but enough.
The AD announces that will be all, calling an end to questions, and the players stand. I stay seated for a beat longer, waiting for the silence to sink in before I clear my throat.
Because this time, I didn’t give them what they came for.
This time, they don’t get to own the story.
My voice comes out low but clear enough to slice through the chatter.
“Yeah. It’s true.” I pause. “I’m with Tessa.”
My throat tightens, but I don’t back down.
“Our families have been close our entire lives. We fought what we felt for a long time—even after people encouraged her to date my brother. I won’t speak for her, but I’ll say this: neither of us wanted to hurt anyone. We didn’t plan it. It just… happened.”
I draw in a breath. “This will be the last time I talk about my relationship before you. But I won’t stand by and let tabloids twist it into something ugly.
So yes, I’m with Tessa St. James. Yes, she has a history with my brother.
She’s the kindest, strongest woman I know.
Everyone who knows her loves her, and I do.
Love her.” My voice cracks. “I’m done letting fear or headlines dictate who I am or the decisions I make.
You can believe what you want about me, but the only opinions that matter are from the people who actually know me. ”
Questions erupt, everyone shouting over each other. Flashes pop. Recorders wave in the air like they’re searching for the next sound bite. The noise builds, but it’s different now—no whispers, no guessing. Just the truth they can’t twist.
I don’t flinch. Don’t look away. I let them see me sitting there, calm, not running from it.
Even with the chaos crashing around me, I feel that pull toward the back of the room.
I don’t have to look to know she’s there and heard every word. I needed her to know that I didn’t fold this time. I won’t hide her. Not from anyone. Not anymore.
They keep shouting, shoving their mics toward me, but I don’t hear them anymore. My eyes search through the crowd until they land on her.
She’s standing near the back, behind a row of reporters, like she thought she could slip in here unnoticed. But I’d find her anywhere. Even in this chaos, I can find her.
And the look in her eyes, shining back at me, glassy with tears she’s fighting like hell to hold back, hits me square in the chest because I know what this means for her.
She’s being dragged into the circus she never asked for, thrown to the wolves in the same spotlight I’ve been fighting to survive.
But there’s something else in her eyes, too.
I’m not sure if it’s relief or pride, or both.
She heard me. She knows I didn’t fold.
That look nearly knocks the air out of me.
Their questions keep flying, but I tune them all out. They don’t even register in my mind. I just keep my eyes locked on her because I don’t need to answer them. I’ve already given them enough.
Relief hits, settling deep in my chest. It’s out there now—her name, the truth. No taking it back. No more secrets or pretending she isn’t mine.
And I don’t regret a damn thing.
My pulse hammers in my ears, but I stand tall, like I’ve been waiting for this hit my whole life.
Whatever comes next, I’ll take it.
Because for the first time, I’m not standing alone.