He snorts. “Only that it didn’t cost them two minutes. Refs were feeling generous.”
“Let’s talk defense,” I pivot smoothly. “You held New York scoreless in the third. What changed structurally?”
He actually thinks about it, which surprises me. “We stopped chasing hits and started suffocating lanes. Trusted Deacon. Trusted each other. You play scared in front of a hot goalie, you lose. We didn’t. They sure as fuck did.”
Grrr.“Deacon had that late save. Huge moment.”
“Hell of a save,” he agrees immediately. “That’s our guy. He stood on his head tonight. He’s a natural leader. Whole team fed off it.”
Proper answer. Growth. I relax half a notch.
“And offensively,” I continue, “Brooklyn gets the game-winner after a lot of physical play. What did that goal mean?”
He grins, sharp and feral. “It meant dirty hockey doesn’t beat smart hockey. You wanna cheap shot us, fine. We’ll put it on the scoreboard.”
I can hear legal hyperventilating.
“Last couple of questions,” I say quickly. “This win puts you on a roll heading into the holidays. How important is momentum right now?”
“Momentum’s fake,” he says immediately. I blink. “It’s confidence that matters. And we’ve got that. Unlike those shitbags, who think they can get away with cheap play because everyone pissed on Brooklyn for so long, we aren’t afraid to work for the win. We know who we are. That’s dangerous, it makes us not just better players, but better men.”
I absolutely should cut him off. I don’t.
“Speaking of the holidays,” I say, leaning into safer territory, “you’ve got a big charity event coming up with the Bears and Fairfax Foundations. What are you most looking forward to?”
I’m handing him the line. He knows it. He could say community. He could say giving back. He could say something clean and sponsor-friendly.
Instead, his eyes flick over my face like he’s clocking a tell.
“Kids,” he says finally. “Always kids. They didn’t ask for any of the shit they’re stuck in. If we can make it easier for them for five minutes, we should. Anyone who forgets that shouldn’t be rich or famous.”
The profanity spikes through the audio feed like a live wire.
But the sentiment underneath it lands. Hard.
The crowd behind us cheers.
“We’ll bleep that for the replay,” I say smoothly, because of course I do. “Thank you, Aleks. Congratulations on the win.”
He leans in a fraction, enough that only I can hear it. “You edit everything that makes you uncomfortable, Sofie Fairfax?”
The way he says my name is too intimate for a tunnel lined with cameras.
I lift my chin. “Only the parts not fit for public consumption,” I look him up and down. “Which, in your case, is approximately ninety percent.”
He laughs, low and rough, and sexy as hell, and I pretend not to notice.
The red light clicks off. The coordinator gives me a thumbs up.
Aleks steps back, eyes lingering on me for a second too long. Then he turns and disappears down the hallway toward the locker room, leaving sweat and adrenaline and something uninvited, knotted low in my belly.
I straighten my blazer, adjust my grip on the mic, and remind myself who I am. Sofie Fairfax. I do not get rattled. I do not get distracted. I certainly do not get affected by six-foot-five Russian defensemen with stupid blue eyes and horrible PR skills.
I have a campaign to run. A family to sell. A legacy to protect. Whatever Aleksandr Kilovac is playing at is background noise.
And I tell myself that all the way to the Icehouse.
Chapter 4
