Chapter 35
Samantha
The next morning, the rink smelled the same.
The players skated the same warm-up laps, chirped the same insults, and Brick still waved at me like he was signaling aircraft.
Colt was already at the far end, tape still on one wrist, taking his warm-up touches like prayer.
Ryan stood near center ice with the calm posture of a man who could settle a room without raising his voice.
Finn cut through a turn hard enough to spray Cross, which set off an argument loud enough to qualify as team culture.
Mack glided through his first turns with the ease of a man who had been doing this longer than some of the younger guys had been shaving.
Jake Morrison and Tommy Kowalski were talking near the bench, both grinning in the dangerous way men grin before doing something inadvisable.
But the air was different.
Not in a way I could photograph or explain to someone who had not been standing inside the last seven weeks of my life. Just different. Lighter. Like the building had decided to stop holding its breath.
Or maybe that was me.
I set up my equipment along the boards, checked my settings, lifted my camera, and for the first time since I had arrived in San Antonio, the viewfinder did not feel like a barrier.
It felt like what it was supposed to feel like.
A way of seeing.
Not a wall between me and the world I was documenting.
Look at you, Sam. Emotionally available and professionally competent at the same time. Alert the press. Notify Bella immediately so she can take credit.
Brick materialized beside me within four minutes of my arrival, which was approximately three minutes longer than usual and suggested he had been exercising restraint.
He leaned against the boards, arms crossed, his expression arranged into something that was trying hard to be casual and failing.
“You and McKinney,” he said.
Not a question. A statement of fact from a man who had been watching the whole thing unfold for weeks and had been waiting for exactly this moment to acknowledge it.
“Me and McKinney,” I confirmed.
“Is he good to you?”
The question was simple. The weight behind it was not. Brick joked about everything and meant very little of it, except when it came to the people he loved. Somewhere in the chaos of the last seven weeks, I had been added to that list.
“Yeah,” I said. “He is.”
Brick studied me for a beat. Whatever he saw in my face must have satisfied him, because his expression relaxed into something genuine. Not the warmth he wore for cameras and crowds. The real thing. The version he kept for people who had earned it.
“Good,” he said.
Behind him, Ryan skated past slowly enough to make it clear he was not listening and absolutely was. Finn, less subtle by design, lifted both brows at Brick from the face-off circle.
Brick ignored them with the dignity of a man pretending he had dignity.
Then, with the timing of someone who understood that sincerity needed an exit strategy, he added, “Just so you know, if he hurts you, I’m not fighting him. I’m telling Sully. He’ll make the rest of camp educational.”
I laughed. “That is honestly the most effective threat I have ever heard.”
“I’m a simple man,” he said, and skated away like he had just deposited a valuable thing and did not need a receipt.
Finn coasted by a second later. “For the record, I would have fought him.”
Ryan did not look up from adjusting his glove. “No, you would not.”
“I would consider it emotionally.”
“That is more accurate.”
Brick pointed at both of them from twenty feet away. “Private conversation.”
Finn grinned. “Then conduct it with less audience participation.”
Ryan’s mouth almost moved. Almost.
I lifted my camera before any of them could see me smiling.
The speculative piece ran that afternoon.
River City Sports Daily, online only, by a reporter named Mendez who had been circling the story for weeks. The headline was predictable:
Stampede’s McKinney Passes on Seattle: What’s Keeping Him in San Antonio?
The article was thin on facts and heavy on implications.
An unnamed source confirmed that McKinney had “formed a personal connection with a member of the team’s media staff.
” No names. No details. Just enough innuendo to generate clicks, comments, and the particular kind of sports-media speculation that fed on itself like fire in dry grass.
Sandra handled it the way Sandra handled everything: with the efficiency of a woman who had been preparing for this exact scenario since the day she realized I was adjusting my angle to follow Evan across the ice.
She released a statement within two hours. Professional and devastating in its simplicity:
“Evan McKinney’s commitment to San Antonio reflects his values and his connection to this community. We’re thrilled to continue building around a player who chooses to be here. Personal details beyond that are his to share.”
No denial. No spin. Just a clear reframing that completely changed the story. The real story wasn’t about the player being distracted by a photographer; it was about the player choosing the city over money.
And in San Antonio, a town that had been burned by departures, rebuilds, and the churn of professional sports loyalty, that story sang.
The comments section, which I absolutely should not have read and immediately read, was overwhelmingly positive.
Finally, a guy who actually wants to be here.
This is what loyalty looks like.
Whoever she is, she must be something special.
She is sitting in a training facility reading the comments section of a sports article about her relationship like a completely normal, well-adjusted person with no emotional vulnerabilities whatsoever.
Sandra found me in the communications room an hour later. She looked tired in a satisfied way, the expression of a woman who had defused a bomb and wanted you to know it had not been easy.
“Handled,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just keep making the campaign look good.”
She paused at the door, one hand on the frame.
“The media-day cover shot I flagged, the one I said was the campaign frame. It ran today. Billboard over Broadway. Two bus wraps on the 281 corridor. It’s doing the work.”
A dry half-smile.
“Turns out the best usable picture of him you took was the one where he was looking at the photographer.”
She let that sit between us for half a second, then added, “For what it’s worth, I meant what I said. I’m rooting for you.”
She left before I could respond, which was her signature move: deliver the important thing and exit before sentiment could accumulate.
I respected Sandra.
I had always respected Sandra.
She had drawn the lines because her job required it. Then, when it mattered, she helped me stay inside them.
Late afternoon, the rink was clearing out.
I was packing my camera bag when a voice I did not recognize made me look up.
One of the younger players, a rookie whose name I had finally learned was Cross, stood a few feet away with a grin that contained zero subtlety and maximum interest.
“So,” he said. “You and McKinney, huh?”
The entire hallway heard it.
Brick, walking past with his gear bag, slowed to watch. Finn stopped beside him with the open interest of a man who had never met a developing situation he did not want to supervise. Two other players paused mid-conversation. Even the custodian leaning on his mop seemed interested.
Mack did not bother pretending not to listen.
Colt leaned against the wall with one shoulder to the cinderblock, tape still on one wrist, wearing veteran stillness that read like permission and warning at the same time.
Ryan stood a few feet behind him, quiet and steady, not interfering but making it clear Cross had about three seconds to keep this respectful.
I could have deflected. I could have smiled politely and changed the subject the way I had trained myself to do for three years, keeping my personal life behind a professional perimeter.
I did not.
“Yeah,” I said. Steady. Clear. My voice carried exactly the distance I intended it to. “Me and McKinney.”
Somewhere behind them, Tommy Kowalski barked out a laugh. Jake muttered something that sounded suspiciously like he owed Cross twenty bucks.
Finn looked delighted. Ryan gave one small nod, the kind that felt less like approval and more like confirmation that the room would behave.
The room accepted the news with the practical efficiency of a hockey team.
Chirp it. Move on.
Cross’s grin widened. Brick, behind him, shook his head with the affectionate exasperation of a man watching his idiot friends finally figure out something he had known for weeks.
The hallway resumed its normal noise level. The custodian resumed mopping. The world continued turning.
And I stood there with my camera bag, my place beside a man who had chosen me openly, and the San Antonio sun streaming through the lobby windows.
For the first time in three years, I felt something clean.
Not triumph. Not the vindication of proving that I could survive another public exposure without breaking.
Pride.
The grounded and unperformable kind. The kind that lived in your bones and did not need an audience. The kind that came from knowing exactly who you were and choosing to say it out loud.
My phone buzzed.
I did not need to look to know.
Bella: I have been INFORMED. By MULTIPLE SOURCES. That my best friend just publicly claimed a professional hockey player in a HALLWAY.
Bella: I am so proud of you I could CRY.
Bella: I am NOT crying. I do not cry.
Bella: I’m a little bit crying.
I smiled at my phone like an idiot. Shouldered my bag.
And walked out into the San Antonio afternoon with my name attached to something real for the first time since I had stopped trusting the world with the truth of me.