Chapter 7
Media
Aleks
“You good?” Faulker asks as I toss my gear in my locker.
“I’m tired.”
“You should be,” he snickers.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I slam the door shut.
“Because you just played the whole game by yourself, the rest of our line may as well have taken a nap,” Moretti states, setting his skates in his locker, then turns to me. “What’s up?”
“The sky is what’s up.” I sputter.
“Kilovac,” Coach D calls. “You’re up for media, superstar.”
“I did that last night, Coach.”
She arches a brow at me, an answer unto itself, and then looks at Deacon. “You, too.”
“Not gonna lie, I’m jealous,” Dash chuckles. “This face deserves airtime.”
I don’t respond. I just grab a towel and head for the cameras, which is far worse than the penalty box; at least I’m there for a violation.
The media line is thicker than usual. Too many lights. Too many phones. I already know why. The Savannah reel.
Me holding her during the parade, her cheek against my shoulder, my face apparently doing something the internet found fascinating. It went viral. Which means I now want to crawl out of my own skin.
The first mic comes up immediately.
The first reporter shoots out, “Killer, incredible performance tonight. Dominant on the wing and everywhere else. How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” I answer, because I am.
Then next, “Can you talk about carrying the line tonight?”
“This entire team has proven we’re all deserving of number one in the league. I don’t carry.” I say flatly. “I play.”
Another, “The parade video from yesterday has blown up online. Did you expect that kind of attention?”
“No.”
Another smiles, “A lot of comments are critical, some of them… personal. How do you deal with the hate?”
I stare at him. “I don’t read comments; I barely look at social media.”
Another nearly cuts me off. “Some fans are saying your attitude feels cold, unapproachable. Do you think that’s fair?”
“I’m not here to be warm,” I reply. “I’m here to win.”
There’s a murmur. Pens scratch faster.
Bart, a reporter known to be a dick, is next. “There’s been a noticeable uptick in negative remarks tied to your nationality. How does it feel to see anti-Russian sentiment directed at you personally?”
There it is. The real question. The one they all want to ask without owning it.
I shift my weight, towel tightening in my hands.
“I was born Russian,” I say. “I didn’t choose geopolitics. I chose hockey.”
Tim from Sports Net, another tool, “Do you think fans project global tensions onto you unfairly?”
“Think?” I scoff. “They do it loud enough to hear.”
Another jumps in because why not? “Does it affect you mentally? Hearing chants, seeing comments that tell you to go back where you came from?”
I look straight at her now.
“I came here,” I say. “I stay here. That’s not up for debate.”
Another fires, “Some people say your success makes them uncomfortable. That you don’t smile enough. That you don’t show gratitude.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. “I say that’s their problem.”
A few people chuckle. A few don’t. I don’t care either way.
Tonya from Fairfax Sports smiles politely, “What would you say to fans who dislike you specifically because you’re Russian?”
I don’t hesitate. “I’d say learn the rules of the game. Being a certain nationality isn’t one of them.”
She nods, “I couldn’t agree more.”
Silence. Then the click of cameras again.
Someone tries to follow up, but Coach D steps in like a wall.
“That’s enough.” She says to them, looking at me. “You killed it out there tonight. Head back to the locker room.”
I turn before anyone can squeeze out another question.
I listen to them question Deacon as I walk away.
Mics shuffle. Shoes scrape. Someone clears their throat like they’ve been waiting for this moment.
“Moretti,” a voice calls. “Huge win tonight. As the goalie, what’s it like watching Kilovac dominate from your end of the ice?”
Deacon laughs, and it’s real and relaxed. “Honestly? It’s comforting. But comfort makes my job real boring.”
A few laughs ripple through the group.
Another reporter, “You two have played together a long time. How much does that chemistry matter in games like this?”
“Means everything,” Deacon answers easily. “I know where he’ll be before he gets there. And he knows if something goes sideways, I’ve got his back.”
I hear the certainty in it. No performance, just fact.
Another, “There’s been a lot of attention on that parade video with your child. Fans seem very invested in your personal lives lately.”
Deacon doesn’t miss a beat. “That was a little one having a good day. End of story.”
Another asks, “Can we get a name?”
“Nope.” He chuckles.
I reach my locker and start grabbing my shower items, listening harder than I mean to as they continue over the sound system.
“Some of the commentary online has gotten ugly, toward Aleks especially.”
Deacon’s tone shifts. Not angry, protective. “People online confuse access with relevance. They think because they can comment, they’re part of it. They’re not.”
Tonya asks, “Does it bother the team, seeing that kind of rhetoric?”
“What bothers us,” Deacon replies, “is blown coverages and lazy clears. Not strangers yelling into their phones.”
Someone snorts.
Another asks, “Do you think Aleks gets misunderstood by fans?”
There’s a pause this time. Short, but deliberate.
“I think people project,” Deacon says. “He’s quiet. He’s disciplined. He doesn’t perform for approval. If that makes a certain kind of person uncomfortable, they should look in the mirror.”
I stop at the locker room door.
The questions are still coming. “How would you describe him as a teammate?”
Deacon doesn’t hesitate. “Dependable. More often than not, he’s the first guy on the ice and last guy off, and the one I trust most when things get ugly.”
A beat.
The reporter follows up with, “And as a person?”
“He’s a good teammate and a great friend.” Deacon says simply. “And he’s good to my kid. That tells me everything I need to know.”
Coach D cuts in before anyone can push further.
“That’s enough,” she says. “Let him get changed.”
I head into the locker room.
“Fun?” Faulker asks dryly.
“I hate all of it,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” he says. “But you’re getting better. You did it without telling anyone to suck your dick.”
I shoot him a look.
Coach D fills the sound speakers, “Let’s be very clear, my players are here for the same reason our fans are.
The love of the game. The Bears organization doesn’t recruit passports.
We recruit talent, work ethic, and people who bleed for this sport.
Any hate you’re seeing isn’t coming from reality.
It’s coming from people choosing to create problems where they don’t exist.”
A reporter tries to interject, she cuts them off, “And if you’re a fan of the Bears, you’re watching hockey. You’re cheering. You’re showing up. You’re part of something good. You’re not wearing tinfoil hats in your mother’s basement yelling at strangers online.”
A few snorts break out. Someone coughs to hide a laugh.
She puts an end to it all, “That’s all we’re addressing on that topic.”
No one argues. No one dares.
Within seconds, she’s in the locker room. “You good?”
I nod. Once.
“That’s it, team. Practice tomorrow at ten.”
Faulker leans in, “She just body-checked the internet.”
I exhale slowly, tension easing for the first time all night.
“Good,” I mutter.
“Wait until they start coming at me for being German and call me a Nazi.” He chuckles.
“Fuck them.”
He holds up his fist, “Fuck them.
We tap it out.
I didn’t ask to be palatable, didn’t ask to go viral for holding a kid like it was something illegal. I asked to play hockey.
Heat, music, the smell of beer, fried food, sweat, and a win that ended early because the Pittsburgh Patriots barely showed up. Jerseys everywhere. My name moves through the room before I fully am.
Then it starts. “KILLER.” One voice. “KILLER.” Then more. “KILLER. KILLER. KILLER.”
The chant rolls through the place, loud and relentless. I pause just inside the door, jaw tightening. Fantastic.
Deacon brushes past me, already shrugging out of his jacket. “They turned out for you.”
Dash is immediately at my side, arm slung over my shoulders, “Listen to that, fear disguised as affection.”
“Why is your arm around me?”
“‘Cause I love you, man.” He chuckles and walks toward the back while we hit the bar.
“Two shots of Beluga Gold Line, Mick,” Faulker says.
Mick puts them right up and the two pints of Paulaner. “On us tonight. Nobody gets to question your grind.”
Giulietti has claimed a high-top toward the back, shots lined up with military precision.
“Let’s do this,” Smith announces as we crowd in.
Koa goes first, “I’d like to thank their defense,” he says gravely. “For giving me so much personal space.” He lifts his glass. “And to Killer, who creates opportunities by making grown men reconsider their life choices.”
Laughter ripples.
Dash leans in, eyes bright. “I scored because their goalie was watching Aleks instead of the puck. Which is fair.” He raises his shot. “To Killer. The most effective distraction in professional hockey.”
Stone lifts his drink without ceremony. “I scored because nobody wanted to stand in front of him,” he says. “I respect that instinct.”
Giulietti taps his glass, “To the Brooklyn Bears who win fast, drink selectively, and somehow make intimidation look like teamwork.” Her eyes flick to me. “And to Aleks. Proof that you don’t have to talk to be terrifying.”
The chant has softened now, still there but dulled, like the room doesn’t know what else to do with me.
KILLER. KILLER. KILLER. The crowd is demanding something of me I don’t want to give, but I must.
“I don’t like bars.” They quiet immediately, and I lift my pint. “Or crowds. Or nicknames. But I like this team, this pub, and so do you.”
I take a sip, a seat, and glance at the door, already calculating my exit.
And that’s when she walks in. Irritation grates on my skin as I remember her utter refusal to get out of my vehicle when I dropped her off last night saying, “I’m Sofie Fairfax, I don’t open doors for myself.”
I keep my eyes on my glass. The condensation ring. The scar in the wood of the table. Anything but the door.
I take another sip. Slower this time. Like I’m not suddenly hyper-aware of my own hands, my posture, the fact that I chose this seat because it gave me a clean exit, and now feels like a trap.
Dash leans closer. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” I say.
He follows my gaze. Or lack of one. His grin sharpens. “Liar.”
Stone glances past me, then back, then lifts his beer, “What did I miss?”
Giulietti’s eyes flick to the door, then straight to me. He smiles into his pint.
I adjust in my seat, angling my body away, shoulders squared to the table like I can physically block her presence. I am not curious. I am not affected. I am not counting steps.
Do not look.
Someone pulls out a chair nearby. The scrape is close. Too close.
I finally glance up, just enough to clock the reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
I see her grabbing the glass of wine and another drink, one for Nalani, clearly no alcohol, as she and Koa are pregnant, and the women in the States think it’s criminal to have a glass of wine while growing a child.
Her coats half off, hair in loose waves, chin lifted like she owns the room and resents it at the same time. She’s not looking for me.
Good. But that somehow makes it worse.
I look back down immediately, jaw tightening, pulse kicking hard against my ribs.
I do not turn around. I do not smile.
I finish my drink, set it down, and start recalculating my exit.
“Look at you acting professional today when the camera was—”
“Nyet.” I stand.
“Nyet?” She laughs.
“I come here to relax, and you irritate the hell out of me.”
“Oh my God, Aleks.” Nalani’s jaw drops, and Koa stands at her back.
Fuck.
“You don’t irritate me. But I am leaving.
” I tell Nalani as I grab my jacket and look at Sofie who is standing in my way, arms crossed, blue eyes dancing with amusement.
I want to pick her up and move her out of my damn way, and I would if there weren’t eyes on me.
“Excuse me.” The only part of her that moves is her eyebrow.
“That arch is as high as the horse you ride around on.”
Dash barks out a laugh, “Killer, man, what the hell?”
“As I said earlier, I am tired,” I sneer at them and look at her. “Move.”
She smirks, “I was going to offer to buy you—”
“You couldn’t afford me, now move.” I hiss and can all but feel the surrounding disapproval. “Please.”