I don’t do interviews.Not really.I’ve built an entire career on short, clipped answers that keep people at arm’s length.Because once you let someone in, once you let them past the mask, you’re exposed.And exposure gets you hurt.
I should’ve told Coach no.I should’ve shut Elle Martin down yesterday when she ran after me in the hall, eyes blazing like she had every right to corner me.
But I didn’t, and now I’m here.
I tell myself it’s because of Coach.Because if he thinks I’m being difficult with the media, it could hurt the team.But that’s not the truth, and I know it.
The truth is, I want to see her again.
The bell over the door jingles, and like I’ve been wired to her, my head lifts.
She’s here.
Bright blouse, pencil skirt, notepad clutched in her hand like a lifeline.She doesn’t belong in this greasy old diner, yet somehow, she owns the whole damn room.A couple of guys at the counter turn to watch her, and my jaw tightens, that protective surge I don’t want to name burning hot in my chest.
Her eyes find me, and just like yesterday, it’s as if the world narrows down to a single, blinding point of gravity.
Elle hesitates for a fraction of a second.Then she straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin, and strides over like she’s daring me to flinch first.
Sunshine.Pure, stubborn sunshine.
“Hayes,” she says, sliding into the booth across from me.She sets her notebook down between us, her pen already in hand.“You ready for me?”
I doubt it.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I grunt.
Her mouth quirks, like she knows exactly how much I don’t want to be here.Then she gets straight to it.“Why hockey?”
I should feed her the canned line.The PR answer.But her gaze is steady, unflinching, and before I know it, the truth slips free.“Because it was the only place I ever felt like I belonged.”
Her pen stalls.Her lips part, soft and surprised.For a second, I wish I could yank the words back, shove them behind the walls I’ve spent years building.
“That’s… actually a really good answer,” she whispers.
Something in me eases a fraction.
The server comes by with coffee, and Elle orders fries without even asking me.She thanks the server with a smile so bright that it makes my chest ache, then turns those eyes on me again.
“What’s your pre-game ritual?”she asks, pen poised.
“Stretch.Tape my stick.Block out everything else.”
She scribbles, then looks up again.“And outside of hockey?”
I snort.“There is no outside of hockey.”
“Everyone has something,” she presses.“Come on, Hayes.You’ve got to give me more than that.Favorite food?Favorite movie?A hobby?”
Her persistence should annoy me.Instead, I feel that dangerous pull again.She’s tugging pieces of me out that I don’t usually share.
“Steak.Don’t really watch movies.And—” I break off, jaw clenching.
“And?”she prompts, eyes dancing like she already knows I’m about to give her something real.
I look down at the table, dragging a hand over my jaw.“Woodworking.”
Her brows lift.“Seriously?”
