I leaned forward.
"That's not my decision. Coach Markel manages the lineup. We both play our game, execute our roles, and the staff figures out what works best moving forward."
Neutral. Deflective. What I didn't say was a denial of the premise. I didn't shut the building narrative down.
Shutting it down might risk exposing what was really going on—the growing connection beyond the ice.
The reporter nodded. Satisfied. Already writing the angle.
Next to me, Heath's hand moved slightly. He closed half an inch of the distance between us.
We sat with our hands almost touching in front of a dozen reporters, and it was the most honest thing that had happened all night.
More questions. They asked Cross about his goal. I fielded an inquiry about my father.
Finally, one cut deeper than the others.
"Heath, Kieran has a contract extension coming up. Do you see yourself as his replacement if he walks?"
I watched him take a deep breath before he leaned toward the microphone.
"I'm not here to replace anyone. I'm here to play hockey. What happens with contracts isn't my business—that's between players and management. My job is to show up and do the work Coach Markel asks me to do."
He pulled back from the mic. The coordinator called time. We stood and filed out.
In the hallway, Cross peeled off toward the training room. Something about his shoulder.
That left Heath and me.
We walked side by side in an empty hallway with no cameras. He had his hood up. Hands in pockets.
Heath's voice was soft when he spoke. "Did I make it worse?"
"What?"
"Scoring. Did I—" He swallowed. "The articles are already comparing us. Same position. Same night. The headlines are already there."
"You didn't make anything worse," I said. "You played well and earned first star."
"That's not what I'm asking."
Outside the locker room door, I stopped and looked at him. "I know."
His jaw tensed. "So did I?"
My voice was firm. "No. You did exactly what you were supposed to. This was always going to happen. Whether or not you scored."
"But now there's numbers. Stats. Evidence."
"Yeah."
"Which makes it harder."
"Yeah," I said again. "It does."
He reached for the door handle and then stopped. When he moved again, his fingers caught my wrist.
Not hard. Just contact. Then he wrapped his fingers around my wrist where my sleeve had ridden up.
