I peel off my helmet as we line up for handshakes, pulse still racing, adrenaline buzzing under my skin. It’s another win that gets us closer to the playoffs. Another win means I’ve earned my spot. That I proved again that I belong here when my father’s voice echoes loud enough to be heard over the noise that I’m a disgrace to the Popovich name. That I’ve failed my family. That I don’t belong on the ice.
He was proud when I won gold for Russia at the Olympics. I was like a party trick he could use at first. He thought it softened the family image that a Popovich was bringing Mother Russia back her gold. Patriotic and all that. Then, when I told him… that I wasn’t coming back home to take over his place as the head of the family, I was cut out.
It doesn’t matter. My sister Katerina is jumping out of her seat, cheering, her eyes moving from Scottie and then to me, making sure to send us each a smile.
It’s annoying how fast Scottie turned my sister into a hockey fan when I’ve been playing hockey her entire life and she never came to a game to watch me. Though I guess she is married to the guy. She’s wearing Easton’s jersey, sitting next to my grandmother. Kat finally convinced her to come down from her private box for one game and sit in Easton’s seats. My grandmother’s security flanks the top of the stairs as if my sister told them they weren’t invited to sit with the family.
My grandmother is shooting daggers at the half-inebriated fan beside her, clutching a beer like it’s a loaded weapon. One wrong move and she looks ready to make sure he doesn’t leave this barn in one piece.
I guarantee my sister will never convince her to sit in the general seats instead of her private box again.
By the time we head down the tunnel, the noise fades into a distant buzz. I’m already shifting gears, mentally packing for Switzerland, the mountains, the snow-covered slopes, and the distance from all of this. It’s time for a break and to recharge. Friendships are a new concept for me… trust is too. I never had either growing up under my father’s rules.
Media is a shit show, like usual, with all the same questions. But there’s one thing different tonight. There’s a woman in the back of the room, and just like that, she steals my attention.
Sharp eyes… the ones I kept finding in the back of the press room, staring back at me. My eyes drop to beautiful, full lips that have me curious how they taste. Now I want to know everything about her. Which outlet does she report for? Why did she choose sports media? If she had a boyfriend? What does she like in bed?
A reporter asks a question, and I miss it altogether. My eyes are still locked on her.
I shake my head to loosen the distraction. "Can you repeat the question?" I ask.
"Do you regret the photoshoot?"
I cross my arms in front of me and lean forward on the press table, and speak slowly into the mic to make sure he hears me. "Next. Question."
My threat doesn’t land, and the next three minutes are a barrage of the same questions from other journalists.
"Did the Olympic Committee explicitly approve the use of the medals?"
"Are you prepared for potential sanctions?"
"Will you issue a formal apology?"
Apology.
There it is again.
They want remorse. They want me to bow my head and say I made a mistake. They want blood, preferably mine.
"I’ve already said everything I’m going to say about it," I answer.
The rest of the press interview goes about the same, and then I’m out of there. I head back to the locker room to change out of my suit and head for Oakley’s with the team for drinks before we all take off in different directions for our two-week break.
The media waits near the exit, microphones raised, cameras ready. I don’t slow down. I never do.
I’ve given them enough of my time in the press gauntlet already.
I’m almost past them when something stops me short.
A hand, firm and deliberate, lands on my chest.
It’s not aggressive, but it’s not timid either, especially for the small figure I’m currently towering over. I glance down.
Press badge. Dark hair. The woman from the press room is now standing right in front of me. I check her left hand against my chest… no wedding band. A purple power suit that, with any luck, will be lying in a heap on her apartment floor with me in her bed, because I never bring anyone back to my place. My mouth curves automatically, reflex kicking in before reason. A woman with a badge isn’t unusual. A woman who isn’t afraid to stop me is.
"If you have more questions," I say smoothly, leaning in just enough to be heard over the noise, "you’ll have to come back next game. Unless," I add, letting my gaze dip briefly to her mouth, "you’re angling for a one-on-one interview. And in that case, how far away is your hotel room?"
I wink.
