Chapter 17 #2
Rawlings stepped back like the conversation had bored him already. “Don’t make Ezra regret defending you.”
Then he turned and disappeared down the tunnel. I stared after him for half a second, jaw locked so hard a pulse started beating behind my ear.
The charges had been dismissed that morning and somehow the entire day had only gotten louder after that.
Messages. League chatter. Talking heads.
Reporters with suddenly softer tones and sharper questions.
The kind of public switch that had nothing to do with understanding and everything to do with link clicks.
They’d wanted a monster while the story was dirty.
Now they wanted a redemption arc because those sold better.
Same circus. Different angle.
I looked back up at the ice.
Cam broke up a rush before it could develop, ate a hit along the boards, and still made the outlet pass. Oliver picked it up in stride. Smart, patient, controlled. Taito rotated high in support. The whole structure held.
A few rows up behind the bench, a little boy in a Frosthawks jersey with 91 on the back was pressed against the glass, both palms flat, eyes wide enough to swallow the whole night. He couldn’t have been older than seven. His mouth moved around my name when he saw me look over.
When my next shift started, I threw myself into it with enough precision to feel punishing.
No drifting toward trouble. No feeding the thing in me that always wanted to answer force with more of it.
I kept my lanes clean, finished checks when they were there, leaned on bodies in the corners, dug pucks free, planted myself net-front when we needed traffic, and gave them nothing they could point to later with smug, self-righteous little circles around the frame.
Jonah forced a turnover low. The puck kicked behind the net. I got there first, absorbed contact into the boards, and shielded it with my body long enough to slide it off to Oliver curling through the slot. He snapped the pass to Marco. Marco sold shot and sent it cross-ice instead.
Zee one-timed it home.
This time the red light didn’t just go on. It detonated.
The roof nearly came off the place.
Zee screamed like he’d been electrocuted, stick in the air, grin split wide across his face as he got swallowed by bodies at the side of the crease.
The bench erupted again, and this time even I felt it—something volatile and bright moving through the entire arena, the kind of belief that made people reckless with their hope.
Four-one.
The best we’d looked all season.
No question.
I coasted toward the pile after the whistle, slower than the rest of them, and somewhere above the roar my gaze snagged on the PR suite glass high across the arena.
Too far to make out much clearly.
But I saw movement there. Dark silhouettes. Someone leaning forward near the front row. Someone else with a phone against their ear. A flash of gold at a wrist when a hand lifted.
Bea.
I knew it before my brain finished putting shape to it.
She’d be up there because that was her job.
Tracking narrative, monitoring reactions, staying close enough to the action to move fast when the aftermath hit.
Press conference after. Statements if needed.
Damage control if someone else decided tonight still belonged to the courthouse instead of the scoreboard.
Because of me.
Even from that distance, I felt the awareness of her like a hand at the base of my neck.
I hated that.
Hated how easily my body had started picking her out of a room.
Hated that my mind was learning her in fragments—posture, movement, the clean scent of her clothes, the way she held herself with a gentle stoicism even when she was breaking down inside.
Hated that I’d started noticing when she was tired.
When she was irritated. When she was holding herself too still because someone nearby had said something she couldn’t professionally tell them to choke on.
The final horn hit like a gunshot, crackling through the arena and then completely erupted—fifteen thousand people on their feet, the sound ripping loose and rolling down over the ice in a wave that felt earned instead of desperate.
Four-one.
No collapse. No late-game panic. No scramble to survive something we’d already lost control of.
We’d handled it.
The guys didn’t wait.
Gloves hit the ice. Sticks slammed the boards. Bodies collided in that chaotic, unfiltered way that only came when something had been building for weeks and finally had somewhere to go.
Zee launched himself straight into Liam, nearly taking them both down in the process. “Let’s fucking go!” he shouted, voice cracking through the noise, adrenaline making him louder than he knew what to do with.
Ty skated backward, arms thrown wide like he’d personally orchestrated the entire night. “You’re welcome, gentlemen,” he called out, already insufferable. “That rush? That was art.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Marco shot back, laughing anyway as he pulled Boris into a rough half-hug.
I pushed off the ice slower than the rest of them, letting the moment burn out around me instead of stepping into it. My lungs dragged in air that tasted like cold and sweat and the sharp metallic edge that always followed a clean win.
The crowd was still on their feet.
Still loud.
Still ours—for now.
I didn’t look up at them again.
The tunnel swallowed us fast, noise dropping from a roar to something more contained—echoing shouts, the scrape of blades on rubber, the slap of gloves against concrete walls.
And then the locker room door slammed open.
Music blasted from somewhere near the back bass thudding hard enough to rattle the metal stalls while half the room shouted over it anyway. Gear hit the floor in pieces. Shoulder pads dropped. Jerseys got yanked off and thrown wherever they landed.
It was chaos. Finally, the good kind. The kind that meant something had gone right.
“About damn time,” Liam muttered, ripping his tape free with his teeth before tossing it into the trash without looking.
“Best we’ve looked all season,” Jonah added, already halfway out of his gear, sweat still shining along his temples.
“Not even close,” Oliver cackled.
“Yeah, yeah, put it on a t-shirt,” Ty cut in, grabbing a water bottle and spraying it straight into the air before tipping it back over his own head. “Frosthawks finally remember how to play hockey.”
Laughter rippled through the room. Loose. Easy.
I stepped into my stall and started pulling my gloves off, fingers flexing once as the pressure released from my knuckles. The ache settled in deeper now that the adrenaline was fading, low and steady.
“Careful,” someone muttered from two stalls down, not loud enough to be for me—but not quiet enough to miss either. “Wouldn’t want to overdo it after a big day like today.”
A couple of guys snorted.
Another voice chimed in, sharper. “Yeah, gotta save something for the next courtroom appearance.”
“Funny,” Ty grunted, tone light but edged just enough to register. “Didn’t hear any of you complaining when he cleared space for Zee earlier.”
“Didn’t hear anyone asking for it, either,” the first voice shot back.
“Jesus,” someone else muttered under their breath. “We won. Can we not do this right now?”
“Yeah,” another added, quieter. “Let it go.”
I stripped my jersey off and tossed it into the bin, the fabric damp and heavy in my hands before it left them. Sweat cooled fast against my skin, the room’s heat clashing with the chill still trapped in my bones.
“You good?” Oliver asked from my left, not looking at me when he said it.
“Fine.”
He nodded once, like that was enough.
Across the room, Cam stood near the center again, tape still half on his wrists, eyes tracking the space like he was cataloging everything without saying a word.
Zee dropped down onto the bench in front of his stall, still breathing hard, adrenaline not done with him yet. His gaze flicked toward me once—quick, uncertain—before he looked away again, rubbing the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
Guilt. That sat heavier than the chirps.
“Hey,” Ty clapped his hands once, loud enough to cut through the room. “If anyone’s got a problem, take it outside. Otherwise, shut the fuck up and enjoy the fact that we didn’t embarrass ourselves tonight.”
“Relax,” the same voice came back, easy. “Just saying what everyone’s thinking.”
A few guys laughed again. The tension didn’t disappear—but it shifted. Moved. Spread out instead of sitting in one place.
Good enough. For now.
Coach’s voice cut through a second later, sharp and grounded. “All right, bring it in.”
The room pulled together in pieces, guys still half-undressed, still riding the high, but focused enough to listen.
“Good win,” he bellowed. “That’s now the standard. Anything less is now beneath you. Gentleman, congratulations. It’s about damn fucking time.” His gaze flicked to me for half a second. “Enjoy it,” he finished. “Then reset. Media’s waiting.”
Guys broke apart again, faster this time. Towels got grabbed. Water bottles emptied. A few last laughs, a few last muttered comments that didn’t quite land anywhere before they dissolved into the movement toward the showers and the hallway.
The media room sat just down the corridor, already buzzing.
The lights hit hard—bright, direct, flattening everything into something easier to consume. Cameras lined up in rows. Faces behind them already turned, already tracking, already deciding what they were going to take from whatever came out of my mouth.
Bea stood just off to the side of the podium, tablet in hand, posture straight, expression composed in that way she wore like armor. Clean lines. Neutral mouth. Eyes steady and unreadable to anyone who didn’t know what to look for.
I did.
Her shoulders were tight. The kind of stillness that came from holding yourself in place while everything around you pushed.
Her jaw was set just enough to tell me she’d already been fielding questions before I got there. Her gaze flicked up when I stepped fully into the room, locking on mine for half a second—sharp, assessing—before sliding back into place like nothing had passed between us at all.
“Two minutes,” she said quietly as I approached, voice pitched low enough not to carry. “Keep it clean. They’re going to push on the ruling.”
“Of course they are,” I replied.
Her mouth pressed thin for a fraction of a second before she added, softer—“They’re already asking about me.”
I felt the implication settle somewhere under my ribs as I looked at her again—the way she held the tablet just a little tighter than necessary, the way her weight was balanced evenly like she was bracing for impact instead of standing at rest.
“They implying you spun it?” I asked.
“They’re implying I had a reason to. Or that I paid off the job in sexual favors.” She let out a forced laugh with a dramatic eye roll. “I mean, at least be professional, if you’re not going to be witty.”
Her remark and a hard push to lighten the mood settled my mind in a way no one ever could before.
My jaw tightened as her joke had time to linger. I chewed on the words as they sent a white-hot rage to build in the pit of my stomach.
“Don’t,” she murmured. “Not here.” Her eyes flicked to mine again, quick, warning. “Stella’s here,” she added.
I stepped closer.
Close enough that it read correctly from the outside.
Close enough that every camera in the room would catch the angle and build whatever narrative they wanted out of it.
Close enough that I caught her scent under the arena air—something soft, clean, faintly warm.
Familiar now in a way I hadn’t agreed to.
She didn’t move.
Just held her ground.
The win was still in my blood. The noise still echoing behind my ears. The pressure that had been sitting on my chest for weeks cracked just enough to let something through I didn’t have a name for yet.
Relief.
Maybe.
Before I could think better of it, I leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. Soft. Fast. Gone almost as soon as it landed.
“Pour les caméras,” I muttered under my breath as I tipped my head toward the rolling film.
It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
Her breath caught. Barely. Her eyes snapped to mine—sharp, surprised, searching like she was trying to find the line between performance and something else.
And just as quickly, it faded. Replaced with that same composed expression as she turned slightly toward the room, shoulders resetting, spine straightening like she was locking herself back into place.
“Ready,” she said, louder now.
Professional.
Perfect.
I stepped up to the podium.
Chairs scraped. Cameras lifted. The room tightened. And then—
“—Alois!” Stella. Front row. No hesitation. No wasted time. “How does it feel,” she continued, tone even, “to have the charges dismissed this morning and then step onto the ice tonight like nothing happened?”
Straight to the throat.
A few pens stilled. A couple of cameras zoomed tighter.
“It didn’t feel like nothing,” I stated. “It felt like hockey.”
A ripple moved through the room.
Another voice jumped in before Stella could follow. “Do you think the ruling was fair, given the level of force involved in the incident?”
“I think the people who saw it made the decision they were supposed to,” I replied. “That’s their job.”
“And your job?” someone else pressed.
“To play a game,” I said flippantly.
“And protect your teammates?” Stella cut back in, smooth as glass.
My eyes flicked to her. “My job is to do what the game requires,” I snarled back.
Then—“Bea,” another reporter called, shifting the angle without even trying to hide it. “Can you speak to the organization’s role in managing the narrative around this situation? There’s been some suggestion—”
“There’s always suggestion,” Bea cut in smoothly, stepping forward just enough to be seen without overtaking the frame. “Our role is to communicate clearly and accurately. That’s what we’ve done.”
“But with your relationship—”
“Is not relevant to the legal process,” she finished, still calm. Still composed. “And not something we’re discussing in that context.”
“Alois,” Stella again, voice cutting back through before anyone else could claim the space. “Do you feel the perception of you has changed today?”
“Perception changes every time someone decides it should,” I answered.
“Do you care?” she asked.
“I care about the people in that room,” I said, jerking my chin vaguely toward the ice beyond the walls.
“And Bea?” someone else added, quick, opportunistic. “Does she factor into that?”
A few heads turned.
“Yes,” I said. Simple. Uncomplicated.