Chapter 3 #2
Aleks shoves him again. Harder this time. Gloves come up. Sticks tangle. A scrum starts, ugly and tight and vibrating with almost-fight energy. Deacon rises fully now, one hand on the crossbar, the other steadying Aleks’s shoulder. It’s subtle. A grounding touch. A command without words.
Aleks stills. Barely. But he listens. That’s important.
The whistle finally blows, late and useless. Offsetting minors are threatened but somehow never materialize. New York skates away clean, smug, daring anyone to say something about it.
I don’t move. I don’t swear. I just smile slowly, already cataloging angles.
Nalani leans closer. “They really just did that.”
“They did,” I say. “And they’re on camera doing it.”
Claudia hums beside me, pleased in that terrifying way. “That clip,” she says softly, “is going to age beautifully.”
Deacon resets in the crease, taps his posts twice, calm restored like he manufactured it himself. Aleks circles back, jaw tight, eyes never leaving the opposing bench.
The crowd is fully awake now. Protective. Loud. United.
New York wanted to rattle the goalie. Instead, they woke the whole damn team.
And I’ve got atmosphere for days.
The next play, Aleks goes hard into the boards, shoulder-first, a clean hit that somehow still feels personal. He barely flinches, already moving, already hunting space like pain isn’t felt, it’s just a suggestion.
The camera follows the puck and my eyes follow him. He doesn’t rush, he prowls.
Then the horn sounds for a shift change.
Theo Rivera hops the boards first, smooth and unbothered, like he didn’t just watch his teammate get targeted. Koa follows, jaw loose, eyes sharp. Dash brings up the rear, rolling his shoulders like he’s settling into a fight he didn’t start but will absolutely finish.
“So hot,” Noelle sighs.
“I love that for you,” I whisper to her.
New York’s second line chirps immediately. Sticks tapping. Mouths running. One of them leans in too close, says something meant to land. Theo just smiles. The puck drops.
New York plays ugly. Hooks at Koa’s hands.
A subtle knee that isn’t subtle at all. Koa, being who he is, the size of a mountain, flicks him off like an irritating bug.
Dash gets cross-checked in the ribs, away from the play, and the refs conveniently turn away.
The crowd boos in waves, the sound rolling like a threat.
He takes the puck at the blue line, gets clipped, keeps it anyway. A defender rides him hard into the boards, shoulder digging, trying to pin him. Koa spins off at the last second, reverse-checking just enough to make the guy stumble.
Theo is already there. Quick pass. Tape to tape.
Dash cuts across the slot, dragging two defenders with him like bait.
Koa circles high, unmarked now, the kind of oversight New York only realizes too late.
Theo sends it back. The shot is filthy. Low.
Fast. Precise. It threads through traffic and snaps past the goalie before anyone can even flinch.
Goal light! The arena detonates!
“Dirty play doesn’t scare this team. It motivates them. And Brooklyn just put one on the board!” Paul claps.
Koa doesn’t celebrate big. He never does. Just a sharp exhale, a nod toward Theo, a gloved fist bump with Dash that says message received and delivered.
Next shift, Aleks lines up beside the guy who hit Deacon. A nothing faceoff. A nothing play. The puck moves past them, and then Aleks’s shoulder drives into the guy’s chest with bone-rattling precision.
The hit echoes through the glass. The crowd gasps.
“Oh,” Noelle says. “That looked … illegal.”
“It was technically clean,” Nalani says, leaning forward. “Technically.”
The ref’s arm stays down. The New York player staggers up, yells something, and Aleks’s mouth curves, eyes flat. Why is that so sexy?
New York shoots, and somehow Dacon stops it. The building explodes; Savannah startles and laughs, and somehow it’s captured in three different angles on the in-house feed.
“Save that,” I tell no one in particular. “We’re using that clip for everything.”
Third period, it happens.
Scrum in front of the net. Whistles. Pushing. Someone jabs at Deacon’s glove after the whistle, sticks locked. And Aleks is there. He doesn’t throw the first punch. He doesn’t have to.
He yanks the offending player away by the collar, their helmets clash, gloves come off. Fists fly. The crowd loses its mind.
My stomach dips.
“Is this bad?” Noelle asks, eyes wide.
“For our blood pressure?” I ask. “Yes. For ratings? Fantastic.”
The ref hauls them apart eventually. Aleks gets five for fighting; the other guy does too. He skates to the box like he owns it. The camera takes a close-up. He sits, chest heaving, knuckles split, glaring at nothing. The jumbotron helpfully replays every angle.
I watch the crowd fall deeper in love with him. God help me, he is good television.
The Bears win by one in the last ten seconds. Aleks with the assist, Stone burying the winner. The building shakes.
I stand, smoothing my sweater. “Alright,” I say. “Time to head down. I have to be in interviews, and you are my crew.”
“You have people for that, right?” Lydia asks.
“I am my people tonight.” I smile. “Let’s get you all to the family area, and I’ll go deal with interviews.”
The tunnel is loud; it’s also packed with camera operators, reporters, and team staff. The air thick with sweat, cold concrete, and victory.
I flash my pass, weave through, and find a corner where the Fairfax logo hangs.
Deacon comes off the ice, hair damp, face flushed, grin wide. He spots me and changes course without hesitation.
“This is where I’m needed?” he asks, voice warm as he looks around.
“Perfect,” I say, and nod to Hildy, who was here for me but will now cover the tunnel. “Smile like that for two more minutes for the in-house cameras, and then we’ll go so you can kiss your fiancée and your baby on the ice-level family feed, and I will make sure you don’t have to do interviews.”
“I knew befriending you was smart,” he says.
“It was inevitable,” I say.
We get everything we need in five minutes. Deacon hoisting Savannah in his arms near the glass, Claudia looking at them like the world might be okay for once, Paul clapping from the tunnel, grumpy and proud.
I’m about to call it when the in-house media coordinator, a harried man with a headset, touches my arm.
“Ms. Fairfax?” he asks. “Our postgame player for the charity spot had to hit treatment early. You want Kilovac?”
I open my mouth to say absolutely not, but instead hear myself say, “Yes.”
Of course.
“Great,” the coordinator says, relieved. “You’ve got two minutes. We’ll feed it to the jumbotron and save a clean file for your people to pull.”
My people. Right.
Noelle gives me a look. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” I say. “Gotta go.”
Aleks appears a moment later, helmet off, hair damp, face still flushed from the fight and the game. He’s in a half-undone jersey, pads visible, one hand taped. There’s a smear of blood on his knuckles and a bruise already blooming along his jaw.
He sees me, and something flashes in his eyes. Recognition. Amusement. Annoyance.
“Of course it’s you,” he says under his breath as he steps into the taped-off interview spot.
“Try to sound less thrilled,” I reply, plastering on my professional smile as the red light on the camera blinks on.
“Fairfax Media with Bears defenseman Aleksandr Kilovac,” I say smoothly, mic steady, posture broadcast perfect. “Aleks, walk us through that win. What clicked for you guys out there?”
He stares at me for a beat too long. Not blank. Assessing. Then he looks straight into the camera.
“We decided we were done letting them fuck around.”
In my head, I’m already dragging the bleep over the word like it’s a crime scene tarp.
We decided we were done letting them screw around.
“Language,” I whisper-hiss, just for him, smile still locked in place. “Family feed.”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “They’ve been chirping all week. All season, really. Rivalry games don’t need speeches. They need answers.”
Okay. Not worse. Not better. Moving on before he digs in further.
“So, you felt this one differently?” I ask. “Because it looked intense from puck drop.”
He nods once. “We won the rivalry tonight. Flat out. You win in our barn, you own it. They came in loud, left quiet. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
That is absolutely a headline.
“Second period got heated,” I say. “That exchange after Deacon was clipped. Walk us through what happened there.”
His jaw tightens like someone flipped a switch. “They ran our goalie. That’s not hockey. That’s dickless desperation.”
Another edit… “And your response?”
He looks at me again. This time, there’s something almost amused in his eyes. Dangerous, but amused. “I corrected the situation. You touch Moretti, you answer to me. That’s not emotion. That’s policy.”
The way he says policy like it’s written in blood does something deeply inconvenient to my pulse. I keep my face neutral. Broadcast neutral. Ice cold. “So, no regrets?”
He snorts. “Only that it didn’t cost them two minutes. Refs were feeling generous.”
“Let’s talk defense,” I pivot smoothly. “You held New York scoreless in the third. What changed structurally?”
He actually thinks about it, which surprises me. “We stopped chasing hits and started suffocating lanes. Trusted Deacon. Trusted each other. You play scared in front of a hot goalie, you lose. We didn’t. They sure as fuck did.”
Grrr. “Deacon had that late save. Huge moment.”
“Hell of a save,” he agrees immediately. “That’s our guy. He stood on his head tonight. He’s a natural leader. Whole team fed off it.”
Proper answer. Growth. I relax half a notch.
“And offensively,” I continue, “Brooklyn gets the game-winner after a lot of physical play. What did that goal mean?”
He grins, sharp and feral. “It meant dirty hockey doesn’t beat smart hockey. You wanna cheap shot us, fine. We’ll put it on the scoreboard.”
I can hear legal hyperventilating.
“Last couple of questions,” I say quickly. “This win puts you on a roll heading into the holidays. How important is momentum right now?”
“Momentum’s fake,” he says immediately. I blink.
“It’s confidence that matters. And we’ve got that.
Unlike those shitbags, who think they can get away with cheap play because everyone pissed on Brooklyn for so long, we aren’t afraid to work for the win.
We know who we are. That’s dangerous, it makes us not just better players, but better men. ”
I absolutely should cut him off. I don’t.
“Speaking of the holidays,” I say, leaning into safer territory, “you’ve got a big charity event coming up with the Bears and Fairfax Foundations. What are you most looking forward to?”
I’m handing him the line. He knows it. He could say community. He could say giving back. He could say something clean and sponsor-friendly.
Instead, his eyes flick over my face like he’s clocking a tell.
“Kids,” he says finally. “Always kids. They didn’t ask for any of the shit they’re stuck in. If we can make it easier for them for five minutes, we should. Anyone who forgets that shouldn’t be rich or famous.”
The profanity spikes through the audio feed like a live wire.
But the sentiment underneath it lands. Hard.
The crowd behind us cheers.
“We’ll bleep that for the replay,” I say smoothly, because of course I do. “Thank you, Aleks. Congratulations on the win.”
He leans in a fraction, enough that only I can hear it. “You edit everything that makes you uncomfortable, Sofie Fairfax?”
The way he says my name is too intimate for a tunnel lined with cameras.
I lift my chin. “Only the parts not fit for public consumption,” I look him up and down. “Which, in your case, is approximately ninety percent.”
He laughs, low and rough, and sexy as hell, and I pretend not to notice.
The red light clicks off. The coordinator gives me a thumbs up.
Aleks steps back, eyes lingering on me for a second too long. Then he turns and disappears down the hallway toward the locker room, leaving sweat and adrenaline and something uninvited, knotted low in my belly.
I straighten my blazer, adjust my grip on the mic, and remind myself who I am. Sofie Fairfax. I do not get rattled. I do not get distracted. I certainly do not get affected by six-foot-five Russian defensemen with stupid blue eyes and horrible PR skills.
I have a campaign to run. A family to sell. A legacy to protect. Whatever Aleksandr Kilovac is playing at is background noise.
And I tell myself that all the way to the Icehouse.