“Bellanti! Knight! Press room!” Coach jerks his thumb toward the door.
The press room is packed. We just made it to the playoffs—it’s official.
Axel grins and takes a seat beside Coach. I lower myself into the chair next to Axel, the table a flimsy barrier between us and the crowd.
God, I hate press conferences. Ever since Jason’s went so terribly, I’m more aware of all the things that could go wrong. The only reason I’m here is because Dmitri was deported.
Under the table, Axel’s knee presses against my thigh. He doesn’t look at me, but I steady underneath the sudden warm pressure.
I press my lips together to stop from smiling.
“Mr. Knight,” one reporter says. “You and Bellanti have been playing brilliantly.”
“We have.” Axel flashes his media smile, the one that shows all his teeth.
“But in an interview after Bellanti joined the Blizzards, you told the media that he would be a horrible addition to the team. Your language was incredibly strong.”
The room goes quiet. Someone coughs.
Axel’s face whitens.
Beside me, Coach reaches for his water glass. His hand isn’t steady. He takes a long sip, buying time, then sets it down with exaggerated care. His smile stretches too wide, the kind that makes you look more nervous, not less.
Axel’s knee pulls away from mine. His fingers drum on the table, then stop. When he speaks, his voice is lighter than it should be, pitched up at the edges.
“Well,” he says. “I was wrong…”
I lean forward. “I’ll answer that question.”
Axel’s head swivels toward me. His lips part, but nothing comes out.
He passes me his microphone. It’s heavier than I expected. The reporters lean forward, pens poised, cameras refocusing.
God, I hate interviews.
But I hate watching Axel flounder more.
“Axel had a very valid reason to believe I was unsuitable for the team,” I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “He is the best judge of character I know. We were best friends from the time we were eighteen when we were assigned as college roommates, and we played together for years. All that affects our hockey positively. But three years ago, through no fault of his own, I stopped speaking to him.”
The room is silent.
“My best friend. The best, most wonderful person I know.” I grip the microphone tighter. My knuckles whiten. “I believed he’d done something reprehensible. But he hadn’t. I never bothered to confirm it myself. I should have. I wish I had. But I didn’t. Axel’s concerns about me were absolutely reasonable,and it was right of him to warn Coach and the team. I’m the one who owes him an apology, not the other way around.”
I set the microphone down. The click echoes.
Axel is staring at me. His mouth is still open. His eyes are glassy in a way I’ve never seen at a press conference.
“What was the nature of this misunderstanding?” a reporter asks.
Axel grabs the microphone before I can. “It was a personal matter.” His voice is firm.
A few reporters try follow-up questions—”Can you elaborate—” “Was this related to—”—but Coach leans into his mic.
“Let’s get back to the game, folks.”
Finally, mercifully, it’s over.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Axel says, once we leave the press room.
