The noise fades to static as every camera lens locks on me, waiting for a response. They want a quote. Something they can spin.
The standard lines sit perched on the tip of my tongue.
I’m focused on hockey or just trying to be the best teammate I can be.
It’s tempting to toss one of them out and keep things tidy.
Safe.
Forgettable.
But I’m so goddamn tired of hiding behind that script.
The truth is, I’m not thinking about hockey right now. I’m thinking about Rina and how she’s been avoiding me for days. How I’ve let her walk away every time instead of stopping her. I’ve spent half my life keeping things light and surface level, focused on hockey.
And what has it gotten me?
A lonely penthouse and a woman who thinks I have no idea how to be serious, loyal, and trustworthy.
Maybe it’s time to change that perception.
I lean toward the microphone, my fingers tightening around the plastic water bottle until it creaks. “Actually, there is someone.”
The room freezes with that unexpected response.
From behind the rows of press, Rina’s head jerks up. She’s half-hidden near the back, tablet hugged against her like a shield. Her dark hair slips forward, but it’s her eyes that hold my attention.
They’re wide and filled with shock.
“She’s not ready to make it public yet,” I continue. “Although, I’m all in and have been for a while where this woman is concerned.”
The silence lasts for exactly one beat before it detonates. Voices erupt and questions fly from every direction as camera shutters snap in rapid succession.
“Is she with the organization?”
“Is it Gabby Wellington?”
“Oliver, are you confirming a relationship with Gabby?”
“Is it someone else?”
They’re shouting over one another now. It’s a wall of noise that closes in on me.
Zane clears his throat and leans into the mic, trying to recapture their attention. “Just in case anyone forgot, I got engaged. And my new show?—”
But no one’s listening as every lens and flash stay trained on me.
The color drains from Rina’s cheeks before flooding back in a rush. Even from here, the tremor in her hand where it grips the tablet is unmistakable. Her gaze darts toward the door, as if she’s mapping out an escape route. She presses back against the wall as her eyes remain locked on mine. There’s panic, disbelief, and beneath it all, something that’s raw.
I don’t move.
Instead, I let the storm build and take me with it.
This time, there’s no hiding.
I catch the blur of movement as she turns away, shoulders squared, chin held high. The only sign she’s rattled is the tightness of her jaw. A flash pops and catches her profile just before she disappears behind the curtain.
That image sears itself into my head as the moderator tries to restore order, but it’s useless.
