Chapter 12 #2
I saw it in the small things. Guys stretching for passes instead of trusting they’d come. Routes getting cut short. Coverage slipping half a step because someone expected someone else to be there. Fractures.
Not big enough to call out.
Not small enough to ignore.
It built.
Shift by shift.
Until it snapped.
Zee got hit in open ice. Not dirty. Clean enough that no one would call it. Hard enough that it didn’t matter. He went down heavy, sliding into the boards with a sound that carried over the crowd noise, sharp and wrong.
I was already moving.
Their guy, Wabash, turned, ready for it, shoulders squaring as I came in. I lined him up, weight dropping, hands tightening on my stick as I shifted into the hit—and for a split second—everything narrowed.
That familiar edge that lived just under my skin, the one the league liked to pretend was a problem instead of a function.
I pulled at the last second.
Not clean enough. But contact still hit hard—shoulder into chest, enough force to send him back a step, enough to draw attention immediately.
The whistle came fast.
“Two minutes,” the ref barked, already pointing.
I didn’t argue. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t look at anyone. Just turned and skated for the box, chest steady even as something underneath it tightened in a way I didn’t like.
They scored on the power play.
Clean.
Predictable.
2–0.
We didn’t recover.
The third period felt like skating uphill.
Every stride took more than it should. Every play required more effort than it returned. We got one back—dirty goal, rebound jammed in at the crease—but it didn’t shift anything.
They answered five minutes later.
3–1.
Game over—Otters’ victory.
The locker room was quieter this time. Gear came off slower. Tape peeled in long, deliberate strips. Someone dropped a glove, the sound louder than it should’ve been.
No one looked at me when I walked in. They’d all seen enough.
I sat, pulling my gloves off, fingers flexing once as the cool air hit damp skin. My shoulders ached. My legs felt heavy. My head— a little too clear.
That was the problem.
Cam said something from across the room, low and controlled, directed at no one and everyone at the same time. About structure. About discipline. About playing the system instead of chasing.
No one argued. No one agreed. It just sat there.
The door opened as heels clicked in a steady rhythm. Soft. Precise. Out of place in a room that smelled like sweat and loss.
I could feel it. The shift of air. The attention snapping to response. The way the room registered her presence differently than it did anything else.
“Media in five,” Bea called, cutting clean through the stale musk and sullen mood.
I stood, grabbing a towel, dragging it once over the back of my neck before tossing it aside.
“You’re first,” she added, stepping closer.
I finally looked at her. Big mistake. Her expression didn’t change. Professional. Composed. Exactly what it needed to be.
“Let’s go,” I huffed.
The air thickened the second the door closed behind us, the noise of the room cutting off clean while the clamor ahead sharpened—voices competing, clipped, impatiently waiting. Cameras adjusted. Tripods shifted. Someone cleared their throat like it mattered.
Blinding lights stripped depth out of everything, turned faces into angles, expressions into something easier to read than they should have been.
“Müller—”
I stopped where I was supposed to, shoulders squared, stance steady, hands loose at my sides.
“Talk about the hit in the second—what was your read there?”
Straight to it—that’s a relief.
“It was late,” I reasoned. “I adjusted.”
“Adjusted how?” another voice pushed, sharper, leaning in.
I looked at him. Young. Hungry. Looking for something he could use.
“I didn’t finish it,” I replied.
“That’s not typically for you,” someone else added, tone lighter. “Do you think that hesitation cost your team momentum tonight?”
There it was. The angle. The narrative.
I kept my face still. “We were outplayed,” I responded. “That’s all there is to it.”
“You’ve been in the spotlight a lot the last few days,” another voice cut in, louder now, pushing to be heard over the others. “How much of that is carrying over into your game right now?”
My jaw tightened.
“Not at all. I played the best I could. So did my team.” I sucked in a sharp breath before adding, “We all leave everything in the locker room, step out onto the ice and give the game our all. Thank you.”
“Do you feel like off-ice distractions are impacting—”
Ignoring the question, I let Bea conclude my interview. I stepped back before they could wind up again, the movement subtle but final. Someone tried to throw another question, voice rising to catch me before I left it.
“Alois—about the press conference—”
I was already gone.
My footsteps echoed harder than they should have, sharp against the floor as I moved past the cluster of media and back toward the quieter stretch that led to the exit. The noise dropped behind me in uneven waves, still present, still pressing, but no longer directly in front of me.
Bea fell into step beside me without touching me. “You kept it clean,” she assured, voice low, even.
“Nothing to clean up,” I replied.
“That’s not true,” she snickered.
I stopped. So did she.
The pause stretched just long enough to register before I turned my head. She met my gaze without hesitation, expression still composed, still exactly what it needed to be in a space like this. But there was something underneath it—something sharper, more aware.
“Does it matter?” I growled.
“Oui, absolument,” she whispered.
“Touché,” I hissed, grabbing for her hand to play the good boyfriend role yet again.
The elevator doors of the hotel slid shut with a quiet, final click that felt louder than it should have.
The hum of the cables kicked in beneath our feet, steady and mechanical as we started to rise, the mirrored walls catching both of us in fragments I didn’t want to look at and couldn’t fully ignore.
She stood beside me—close enough that I could feel the heat off her through the thin layer of fabric between us, far enough that no one would question it if they saw.
My jaw churned as Marco’s voice cut back through my head, clear as if he was still next to me. The laughter. The looks. The way the entire locker room had shifted the second her name had become part of the story.
I exhaled slowly through my nose, dragging my hand once across the back of my neck, trying to shake it loose.
“Locker room seemed to like our little spectacle,” I snarled finally, the words coming out rougher than I intended.
That got her attention. Her brows knitted in just slightly as her head cocked to the side. “Excuse me?” she snapped.
I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head once. “Forget it.”
“No,” she chastised immediately. “Don’t do that.”
I laughed under my breath. Not amused. “Don’t do what?”
“Say something like that and then shut down,” she replied, turning toward me fully now. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
“Whole room was laughing,” I barked back, meeting her glare. “Before we even hit the ice.”
Her expression didn’t change—but something in her eyes sharpened. “And that’s my fault?”
“Yes,” I shot back. “It’s your press conference,” I continued, the words coming faster the angrier I got. “Your narrative. Your job to keep it from turning into a circus.”
“It wasn’t a circus,” she scoffed, voice steady. “It did exactly what we wanted.”
“It made me a fucking joke.”
“No,” she whispered. Her eyes narrowed into slits as she seethed, “Your teammates made that choice.”
“Because you gave them something to work with.”
“Because they’re hockey players,” she shot back, sharper now. “They chirp. That’s what they do. That’s not on me.”
“It is when it walks in with me,” I bit.
Silence snapped tight between us.
The hallway stretched out in front of us, quiet, carpeted, insulated from everything that had just happened like it didn’t exist.
Our footsteps fell into rhythm without discussion.
“We have a job to do,” she sighed after a few steps. “You and me. Together.”
I didn’t respond.
“We’ll figure it out,” she continued, glancing over at me. “As long as you stop blaming me for shit I did not do.”
I let out a short, sour breath. “That’s convenient.”
“It’s accurate,” she corrected.
I stopped walking. She took two more steps before she realized it, turning back toward me with a look that was equal parts irritation and something else she wasn’t letting show.
“You’re a distraction,” I yelled at her.
Not to the team. To me. I didn’t say that part.
Her eyes held mine, steady, unflinching. “Then that’s your problem,” she growled.
Something in my chest pulled tighter.
She turned again, reaching our door before I did, keycard sliding in with a soft click before she pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room was dim, neutral, impersonal in the way all hotel rooms were. One bed. King.
I dropped my bag by the chair, rolling my shoulders once, tension sitting heavy and unmoving across my back.
Behind me, I heard her set her things down more carefully.
“We leave early,” she remarked, moving past me toward the window, fingers brushing the curtain aside just enough to look out over the city below.
New York spread out in lights and motion, alive in a way that had nothing to do with us.
“I’ve never been here,” she added, almost to herself.
I glanced over. She was still looking out, her reflection faint in the glass, softer than the version of her that stood in front of cameras and locker rooms and chaos.
“I kind of wish we didn’t have to leave first thing,” she admitted quietly.
Not a complaint.
Just… a thought.
Something real and unguarded.
It hit differently than anything she’d said all night.
I didn’t answer.
Didn’t move.
Just stood there, watching her for a second longer than I should have before looking away.