Answer.
My heart slams. My tongue dries out. My curls stick damp against my forehead as every camera tilts toward me.
“Uh—”I cough, square my shoulders under his old jacket, and try again.
Every nerve in me screams to fold. To let him take it. To let Damian bulldoze them with a look.
But he won’t.
This one’s mine.
So I don’t chirp. I don’t grin. I don’t run.
I tell the truth.
“He pushes me,” I say loud enough to carry over the mics. “Because he needs me to be the best. Not for him. Not for me. For this team.”
The tunnel goes still. No scribbling, no whispers, just cameras flashing like lightning strikes.
I swallow hard, but I keep going. “He doesn’t let me fold. Ever. If I screw up in practice, he makes me do it again. If I hesitate, he hits me harder than anyone else. Because if I can survive him, I can survive anyone in this league.”
A beat of silence. The words hang there, heavy as stone.
And then the reporters erupt—questions layered over each other, voices climbing, cameras surging closer.
But I don’t hear them.
I hear him. The rumble low in his chest. A hum, deep and satisfied, right behind me.
And I know. I didn’t disappoint him.
The tunnel is a storm—flashes bursting, voices rising, everyone clawing for blood. I think we’re done, I think maybe I’ve slipped past it with that answer, but then one of them cuts sharper than the rest:
“So, are you guys together off ice?”
My lungs stop. My throat locks tight. Every instinct screams to look at him again—and I do.
Damian doesn’t move. Doesn’t twitch. Just slides his stick sideways, the cold tape brushing my hip like a leash. Subtle. Silent.Answer.
Fuck.
My stomach free-falls. My ears roar. But my voice—hoarse, wrecked, raw—still claws out of me.
“Yes,” I say, clear, steady. “We are.”
The tunnel detonates. Cameras flash like lightning, reporters shouting over each other, recorders shoved closer. My face burns scarlet, but I don’t backpedal. I don’t take it back. I keep my eyes forward.
Another vulture cuts through the noise. “So is he favoring you on ice?”
I laugh. Reckless, broken right down the middle. “If by favoring you mean giving me more bruises than anyone else, sure.”
The laughter that explodes from the vets behind me nearly shakes the tunnel—Cole cackling like a hyena, Mats mutteringholy shitunder his breath, even Viktor snorting once like the apocalypse just came early.
But I don’t look at them.
I look up.
At him.
