Chapter 11
BEA
Alois grabbed my hand the second my heel hit pavement. Implementing our rules flawlessly from the jump. It shouldn’t have felt odd, but it threw me off kilter.
The world outside the car wasn’t quiet. It hit. Smacked right into me as voices layered over each other in uneven waves. The rapid-fire staccato of camera shutters snapped like electrical sparks. Someone called his name—loud, insistent. A flood of cascading questions followed.
“—Müller—!”
“—Who’s the girl?”
“—Alois, over here—!”
I didn’t pull my hand away. I couldn’t. His grip wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but it was unyielding.
Grounding in a way I hadn’t expected, didn’t want to acknowledge.
His thumb shifted once against the inside of my wrist, subtle, almost absent-minded, but it sent a small, sharp awareness up my arm that had nothing to do with the cold Minnesota wind ripping through the buildings.
I straightened automatically, shoulders back, chin lifted a fraction. Posture before panic. Running throw the checklist, I tried to calm my shaking nerves and hands. Walk in. Stay calm. Control the room. Don’t over explain. Don’t undercut. Don’t—
A flash went off too close to my face, white-hot and blinding for half a second. My vision spotted, then corrected. The smell of something faintly chemical cut through the thin air.
Alois didn’t slow. He moved like stepping into a storm was routine and knowing it would break around him. Long strides. Measured. His presence did something to the space without him saying a word.
I felt all it, every nerve ending raw and exposed. Felt him. Every step we took pulled me deeper into it, into the heat of bodies and the push of attention and the expectation that I would meet it head-on without flinching.
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket, a small, contained vibration against my hip that somehow cut cleaner than the noise around me.
I didn’t reach for it immediately. Not until we hit the double doors leading inside, not until the sound changed—outside chaos flattening into the echo of a hallway and the low hum of fluorescent lighting overhead.
Alois released my hand as soon as we crossed the threshold. The absence of him immediate. My fingers curled reflexively, trying to hold onto something too fleeting to address.
I didn’t look at him.
I reached for my phone.
Lo’s name lit the screen.
Ezra sees the potential in you. So do I. Walk in like you belong—because you do.
I stared at it for half a second longer than necessary, the words settling somewhere just below my thundering heart. Not fixing anything. Not erasing the pressure. But anchoring something steadier underneath.
Another buzz followed almost immediately.
This time, I didn’t hesitate.
Lucy: Dad filled me in on what happened. Are you okay? I’ve got Bento covered tonight—don’t even think about it. And… congrats on the job. You’ve got this.
I typed back quickly.
Thank you. I appreciate it.
I locked my phone and slipped it back into my pocket.
“Ready?” Char asked, already halfway turned toward the press room doors like the answer didn’t matter. Her tone was smooth. Professional. Neutral. Her eyes flicked over me once, quick, assessing.
She was immaculate—sleek hair, tailored suit, not a single detail out of place, her expression cool and untouchable in a way that made warmth feel like a weakness she had long since outgrown.
I nodded. “Of course.”
Alois made a quiet sound beside me. Not quite agreement. Not quite disbelief.
The room revealed itself as we stepped into it, not all at once, but in sharp, disorienting pieces.
The lights hit first. Too bright. Too direct.
They flattened everything beneath them, stripping the space of shadow and softness until every surface felt exposed.
I blinked hard against it, my vision adjusting just as the rest of the room came into focus around me.
Rows of bodies filled the space, closer than I expected, their attention already fixed forward.
Cameras lifted in practiced unison, lenses angling, adjusting, narrowing in as we moved.
The quiet mechanical sounds of them—clicks, shifts, the faint hum of equipment—layered beneath the low murmur of voices that never fully settled.
Alois’s hand found the small of my back, firm and unhesitating, guiding me forward with quiet insistence that did not ask for permission. It was not gentle, directing my movement before I could second-guess it, before I could linger in the unfamiliar weight of the room pressing in around me.
“Avance,” he murmured under his breath, the French quiet and deliberate, low enough that no one else would catch it.
I caught the subtle shift in him—the brief flicker of satisfaction, like he’d just confirmed something useful. A language that had shifted in the car from convenience to something far more intentional. Something that now sat between us, unspoken and understood.
I didn’t hesitate. I moved when he did, letting him guide me forward as the long table at the front came into view, microphones already positioned, name placards set in place.
Alois reached my chair before I did. He pulled it out in one smooth motion, not looking at me, not pausing to soften the gesture, just creating the space and expecting me to take it.
The second I sat, he shifted the chair forward, closing the distance between me and the table with a firm, controlled push that grounded me in place whether I was ready or not.
It was efficient. Practical. And unexpectedly steadying.
By the time I lifted my gaze, he had already taken his seat beside me, close enough that I could feel the residual heat of him through the narrow space between our arms.
Everything about Alois read as composed, contained, entirely in command of the space we had just stepped into, even as the room continued to adjust around us, cameras settling, voices lowering, attention sharpening.
I smoothed my hands once over the fabric of my suit pants before placing them neatly on the table, forcing my posture into alignment, forcing my breath to slow.
Char stood to the side. “Thank you all for coming,” she began, her voice carrying easily over the murmuring crowd. “We’ll start with a brief statement, then open the floor for questions.”
Her gaze flicked to me. That’s my cue.
I leaned forward, just enough to catch the microphone cleanly. “The Minnesota Frosthawks organization is aware of the altercation involving Alois Müller following the game two nights ago,” I began, keeping my tone steady and deliberate, allowing the specificity to do the work without overexposure.
“We take situations like this seriously. The organization is currently reviewing the incident internally, and we are in communication with league officials as they complete their evaluation.” I took one short breath before continuing, careful to maintain the balance between clarity and restraint.
“Our expectation is that every player represents this organization with professionalism both on and off the ice. At the same time, we believe in a fair and thorough process, and we will respond appropriately once that process is complete.”
I let the statement settle for a moment before finishing. “Our priority remains the safety of everyone involved and the integrity of the game.”
I stopped there, exactly where I was supposed to. And for a moment, the room held still.
Not completely silent—but suspended. The low hum of equipment buzzed faintly beneath everything else. A chair shifted somewhere in the second row. Paper slid against paper. Someone cleared their throat.
I kept my posture relaxed but deliberate, shoulders back, chin level, hands resting calmly in front of me. I didn’t look at Alois. I didn’t look at Char. I kept my focus forward, where it belonged.
“Questions.” Char’s voice cut cleanly through the space, smooth but edged just enough that I felt the correction in it. I had let the pause stretch a fraction too long.
I didn’t react. Couldn’t give anymore doubting me the satisfaction. Instead, I shifted my attention to the room as it came back to life, the stillness breaking into motion almost immediately. Reporters leaned forward, hands lifting, voices stacking over one another with practiced urgency.
The first questions came quickly, but they followed the script I knew.
“Can you expand on what ‘internal review’ means in this context?”
“Was there communication with league officials immediately after the game?”
“Does the team anticipate disciplinary action?”
I handled them.
I kept my answers clean and precise, giving them enough to satisfy without offering anything that could be reshaped into something else later. The language came easily, the cadence familiar, like stepping into a rhythm I had practiced until it felt instinctive.
Beside me, Alois remained still. He did not speak, he barely moved, but his presence was impossible to ignore. I could feel the awareness of him at my side, the quiet weight of it, steady and constant.
The moderator nodded toward the next reporter.
“Will Müller be available for the next game pending the league’s review?”
Simple. I opened my mouth. “We anticipate—” I started, then recalibrated mid-sentence, adjusting for precision. “Availability will depend on the league’s determination following their review process, which typically includes—”
Another voice cut in. “What kind of suspension are you expecting here?”
The rhythm shifted. Subtle at first. Then sharper. I felt it in my chest before I understood it. The questions stopped waiting their turn. They started stacking.
“Does this impact line deployment moving forward?”
“Was this sanctioned internally?”
“We don’t comment on potential disciplinary outcomes before they are finalized,” I retorted, pivoting cleanly. “As for team decisions, those remain within coaching discretion—”
It sounded right. It was measured, composed, and delivered with the kind of certainty that usually held in a room like this.
It was also very wrong.