Trevor smirks. “What? I’m just saying, man’s sleeping like a college kid. Hard to stay elite when you’re crashing on someone’s pull-out.”
I don’t take the bait. I just grab my stick and shove it into my bag, the thud echoing off the lockers. “You done?”
He grins. “Just getting started.”
Gabe steps between us, calm but firm. “Drop it, Trev. He’ll light it up Saturday. Then you can go back to running your mouth about someone else.”
The silence after that is tight. I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the exit before anyone can say more.
Claire calls after me. “Press is waiting by the tunnel. Keep it short.”
Of course they are.
The tunnel smells like sweat, disinfectant, and the faint metallic tang of the ice. Reporters line up behind the barricade like sharks who’ve scented blood. Cameras flash as soon as I step out — the pop and click crawling under my skin.
Claire wasn’t kidding. They’re waiting.
I keep my head down, jaw tight, moving through the motions: nod, half-smile, towel slung casually over my shoulder. It’s all muscle memory now — the post-practice shuffle of controlled exposure.
Then I hear her voice.
“Leo! Anya Lopez, Surge Daily.”
Of course it’s her.
I stop because it’d look worse if I didn’t. Her recorder’s already out, red light blinking. She’s good — never misses a beat.
“How’s the adjustment been since the flood?” she asks, voice smooth and deceptively light. “You’ve been on the road a lot, but fans are wondering if the off-ice situation’s affecting your focus.”
My jaw tightens. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” She tilts her head. “No sleep issues? No distractions?”
I meet her gaze, cool and steady. “No.”
The lie sits heavy on my tongue, but I’m not about to feed the headline machine. I’ve seen what happens when players slip — one clipped quote becomes a week of speculation. I can already imagine the spin:Voss Cracks Under Pressure.
Anya studies me for a second longer than necessary, like she can hear the tension in my silence. “Fans will be glad to hear that.” She lowers her mic.
The second she steps back, another reporter shouts a question about Saturday’s game. I keep my answers short. Predictable. Scripted. The perfect PR clone. Safe, but hollow — like every word builds another wall between me and everyone else.
When the scrum finally disperses, Gabe claps my shoulder. “Handled it like a pro. Couldn’t even tell you wanted to punch a wall.”
I huff out a humorless laugh. “Guess I’m improving.”
He grins, then sobers. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I adjust the strap on my bag, eyes on the exit. “Just tired.”
He studies me a beat, then nods. “See you tomorrow.”
Once I’m alone, the weight hits. The noise of the rink fades, leaving just my pulse thudding in my ears. I can still see Anya’s face — sharp, curious, relentless — and hear her question echoing:Is it affecting your focus?
I don’t know what bothers me more — that she asked, or that she’s right.
When I’m not on the ice, my head’s somewhere else entirely. In that cramped kitchen that smells like garlic and sugar. Listening to her hum under her breath while she cooks. Watching the curve of her mouth when she tries not to smile.
I shove the thought down hard and keep walking.
