A mic lunges. “Is discipline the story off the ice?”
I can feel Julia’s sigh from three rooms away. The handler chirps, “Hockey only.”
I keep my eyes on the lenses—where rumors like to live. “Here’s what’s true on and off the ice,” I say, steady enough to skate on. “I trust Riley Lane with my life.”
The scrum inhales. Pens actually scratch. The handler’s smile dies and resurrects in a blink.
“Can you expand on that?” someone pushes. “Trust in what capacity?”
“In the one that matters,” I say. “Health. Performance. Doing the job better than anyone I’ve worked with. She’s the reason I’m on the ice as much as I am. She’s the reason a lot of guys are.”
“Are you saying you and Ms. Lane?—”
“I’m saying stop making competence a scandal.” Not sharp—final. “You want policy? Great. The team is implementing open doors, double-staffed treatments, logged sessions. Transparency that protects staff and players. That’s the headline.”
“Blackwood was seen entering practice,” a beat writer I respect calls out. “Have you spoken with him?”
“We’ve talked. Ownership cares about wins. Wins come from healthy bodies. Healthy bodies come from good staff. Connect the dots.”
“Last one,” the handler begs.
“I’ve got it.” I give them something to print. “We skate at eleven. Systems matter. Guys are bought in. That’s your copy. And yes, Kitson finally figured out how not to be cute at the blue line.”
Laughter ripples—relief disguised as humor. Red lights wink off. “On record, yeah?” someone says. I nod so there’s no confusion.
The scrum dissolves into hallway hum. My pulse eases a notch. I can feel the text I’m about to get from Julia—three line items, one threat, a grudginggood line—writing itself. Under it, a promise I didn’t say out loud settles where I can carry it: don’t let them turn her into content.
The handler leans in, pitching for mentor and landing hall monitor. “We said hockey only.”
“We did hockey,” I say, already turning for the room. “You just heard the part that wins games.”
The rink empties to white noise and condensation. Practice burns through the noise in my head until all that’s left is lungs and motion. By the time Ducks blows the final whistle, my body feels rinsed out—cleaner, if not lighter. Steam fogs the mirrors in the room; I stay seated, taping and un-taping my wrist just to give my hands a reason to exist.
The silence that follows practice always feels too big. I reach for my phone because quiet never meant peace. One text half-typed:Come over tonight? No cameras, no calls. Just us.The cursor blinks like it’s mocking me. I hit delete. Anything I send will sound like a demand she doesn’t owe me answers to.
Screw it. I call. Straight to voicemail. Her recorded voice is too bright, too old. I listen through the greeting before I can stop myself.
“Hey. It’s me.” I hate how that sounds—seventeen and uncertain. I try again. “Jason. Practice was good. You don’t owe me anything. I just… I’m here. Come by tonight if you need to. Or don’t. Just—breathe. I’ll do the rest.” I hang up before I beg.
The buzz that follows isn’t her. Julia’s name fills the screen.
“On your line about ‘trust Riley with my life,’” she says by way of hello, her voice tight and fast. “We’re clipping it for socials. It’s testing well.” A pause, paper shuffle. “For now.”
“What’s the count?”
“Vectra wants a contrition statement—‘regret any confusion,’ ‘respect for policies.’ WaveTech will settle if you do a community event. FreshFuel still wants you for a ‘values’ podcast. Owner wants a signature today.”
“No,” I say, flat. “We’re not selling a scapegoat statement.”
“Jason.” She sighs into the line. “We can word it so you’re not admitting anything, just cooling sponsors.”
“I’m not throwing her under the bus in passive voice.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We give them the protocol, the paper, the work. Nothing else.”
Static hums while she thinks. “Okay. I’ll buy us twelve hours. After that, Nolan decides.”
“Then make it expensive,” I remind her.
“Always.” Her tone softens. “Eat something. You sound like gravel.”
