9. January 24, Monday #2
“This is your room,” he said finally, eyes locking on Ilya. “Your standard. Your response.”
Ilya nodded once.
“Media in two,” Coach added. “No excuses. Own it. No drama.” Then he was gone.
The room exhaled, but the pressure didn’t ease.
Ilya wadded the tape into a tight ball and dropped it in the bin. His fingers were still shaking. Leadership meant absorbing damage quietly.
“Media coming!” Nina called.
Guys scrambled. Shirts tugged on, faces wiped, postures reset.
Ilya wiped a hand down his face and stood.
The swarm poured in moments later—reporters, cameras, boom mics, the smell of cologne and cold air. Nina hovered at the edge, tablet in hand, eyes sharp.
She caught his gaze and tipped her chin toward a problem reporter.
Ilya nodded.
He was already moving. Ilya drifted through the room while guys gave interviews, exhaling when the questions stayed familiar.
What happened in the third?
How do you stop the skid?
Is confidence slipping?
The veterans handled it well—we, not they—steady and practiced.
Still, Ilya tracked the second line from the corner of his eye.
Tommy, usually loose in scrums, was tight, jaw locked.
Jason hovered near the wall, shoulders coiled.
Christian sat half in his stall, half forward, face pale under damp curls, clearly broadcasting not tonight.
Ilya made a mental note to check on the kid once the room cleared.
A young reporter with a too-big credential edged toward him. “Cap, can you walk us through that last goal?”
“The loss starts with me,” Ilya said evenly. “I wasn’t at my best tonight, and when that happens, the cracks spread. We weren’t on the same page. That’s on me. We’ll address it.” His accent thickened with fatigue, but his delivery stayed clean. Hard eye contact. No flinch.
The kid nodded and scribbled.
A veteran reporter slid in next. “This isn’t one game, Ilya. It’s four. You’ve been outscored nine to two in third periods. That’s more than communication, isn’t it? Conditioning? Focus?”
Focus. The word prickled down his spine.
“We know the numbers,” he said. “We’re not happy with them. We have to close games. That starts with habits tomorrow.”
Clichés. He could hear them as they left his mouth. Some bitter part of him wanted to say the truth—that one moment of hesitation had cost them everything.
Instead, he fed the machine.
The scrum shifted, reporters circling like fish scenting blood. A local TV guy tossed a softball. Ilya knocked it down with a nod, eyes still tracking the room.
Jason had backed against the wall, arms crossed, answering a beat writer he liked. Good. Less likely to explode.
Nina hovered at the edge of the scrum, calm and watchful.
So far, everything was controlled.
Then a voice cut in from the back—too cheerful, too sharp. Markson. “Ilya,” he said, stepping forward. “Coach used the word distracted. Fair or not, people are going to connect that to everything happening around the team right now.”
Ilya said nothing.
“Your second line’s struggling,” Markson said. “Christian Rudiger hasn’t clicked with Kolbeck and Miller, and management’s boxed in by the cap. Meanwhile, Mitchell Collins is having a hell of a season in San Jose.”
He paused, letting the name settle over the room.
“You’ve publicly talked about wanting to play together again. Collins has hinted at the same thing. Now his ex-wife is suddenly working in this building, and every hockey blog in North America is connecting dots.”
The room went still.
“So, I’ll ask directly,” Markson said. “Is any of this becoming a distraction? Are personal relationships affecting focus in this locker room? Including yours?”
Ilya’s jaw locked. Heat surged, then dropped out from under him. It felt like every eye in the room was on him.
Because being accused of the thing you already feared didn’t feel like speculation. It felt like confirmation.
He opened his mouth, reaching for the standard answer. Something else came out. “What people are wondering,” he said quietly, “has nothing to do with this room, and everything to do with needing a story when they don’t understand the game.”
The room froze.
“You want to talk hockey,” he continued, voice cold and steady, “we’ll talk hockey.
Systems. Coverage. Shot quality. All night.
But dragging staff, programs, or people who weren’t on the ice into a blown read to dress it up for a headline?
” His lip curled. “Maybe try learning the sport before asking the question.”
Someone muttered, “Holy shit.”
Markson flushed, pen hovering uselessly.
You don’t lose it at the mic.
You don’t take shots on camera.
Not ever but especially not right before trade deadline.
The realization rose sharp and acidic.
Fuck!
Markson recovered. “So, you’re saying there’s nothing—no one—off-ice affecting focus?”
Ilya’s hands curled into fists.
He couldn’t feel his fingers.
Before he could respond—before he could decide whether to double down or walk it back—another voice cut through the tension.
“Okay, we’re going to stop this here for tonight.”
Every head in the scrum swiveled.
Zoey stood just outside the circle of reporters, clipboard held to her chest. She’d traded her usual wild colors for a game staff polo, but somehow she still looked like a highlighter smuggled into a grayscale sketch.
Her face was calm. Professional. Only the tight set of her mouth betrayed that she was irritated with the gossip-mongering.
She didn’t look at him.
“My apologies,” she said, voice carrying, “but I’m being told we’ve run past the scheduled locker-room media window post-game tonight. We need to move Coach to the podium, so if you need follow-ups or quote confirmation, please send them through Evan.”
Half true. Half bullshit. Exactly the ratio the best lies lived in.
Nina, to her credit, didn’t miss a beat. She stepped up beside Zoey, her gaze snapping from the frozen scrum to Ilya’s face, the pinched line of her mouth promising consequences later.
“That’s right,” Nina said briskly, clapping her hands once. “We’re done in here. Coach will be at the podium in two. Player availability is over.”
A few reporters protested; Markson, predictably, among them.
“We didn’t get to—”
You got what was scheduled,” Zoey said smoothly, before Nina could. “If you need follow-ups or quotes confirmed, you know the drill. Email Evan.”
She said it like she’d been in the room since Day One.
Still, she didn’t look at Ilya. Her focus stayed on the reporters and the cameras, holding the tension steady and basically daring anyone to challenge her.
One of the TV guys hesitated, glancing between her and Nina like, Is she allowed to do that?
Nina’s expression answered for her. “We’re done,” she repeated, all polished authority now. “Push harder in here and you won’t get what you want out there either.”
Markson’s jaw worked. His eyes flicked back to Ilya, scenting spilled blood. But between Nina’s stare and Zoey’s implacable calm, something like self-preservation kicked in.
One by one, they backed off. Microphones lowered. Cameras pivoted away.
The scrum dissolved in the soft rustle of clothes and muttered thanks.
When the last reporter filed out, Nina followed, pausing only long enough to skewer Ilya with a look that promised a reckoning later.
Zoey stayed.
Around him, the room shifted; guys rummaging through stalls, others staring outright. The earlier edge of anger and shame had morphed into something else. Curiosity. The electric buzz from witnessing something you weren’t sure you were supposed to see.
Zoey finally turned and met his gaze. There was no censure. No what the hell were you thinking? Just quiet.
Concern, yes. A crease between her brows he remembered from college, from nights he’d come home after bad games, pretending they hadn’t hurt. That look had always undone him. Apparently, nothing changed.
She lifted her brows in a silent check-in.
He nodded once. Speech felt dangerous.
Her eyes flicked over him like she was taking inventory: the locked jaw, the faint tremor still in his fingers, the way his shoulders hadn’t dropped since the final horn.
Then she gave the smallest nod. Not approval. Not absolution. Just acknowledgment. I see you. Her lips twisted faintly, betraying how badly she wanted to come over and really check on him. Instead, she gave one final nod and turned away.
As she passed through the doorway, the fluorescent light caught a strip of hot pink sock above her sneaker. Ridiculous. And somehow, it made him smile.
When the door shut behind her, the locker room felt emptier, and easier to breathe.
Guys moved again, laughter breaking out in awkward bursts. Someone—probably Tommy—cracked a joke about Ilya, “going nuclear on Markson’s ass.” It earned a weak but real laugh.
Ilya didn’t join. He sank onto the bench, legs suddenly heavy. The adrenaline was draining, leaving a hollow ache behind.
He’d lost his temper on camera. Broken his own rules. Handed the vultures a story they’d gnaw on for days.
And the person who’d stepped between him and the circling teeth was the one person he’d been punishing himself for wanting.
He should’ve felt only shame. Frustration. The familiar grind of responsibility.
Instead, something quieter pulsed. Gratitude.
Disorientation. And a realization that unsettled him more than any losing streak.
Zoey hadn’t flinched when he cracked. Hadn’t turned away or treated him like he was less for it.
She’d stepped in, still seeing the man under the C, then stepped back out again like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He didn’t know what to do with that. Or with the equally dangerous fact that, for the first time in a long time, the instinct to shut everyone out hadn’t felt quite so absolute.