"Popovich."
"Luka, over here."
"Luka—question on the third period."
I take my seat behind the table and settle my hands on the surface, posture loose enough to look calm, but it’s not entirely an act. This room doesn’t make my pulse spike the way it used to.
Not because the reporters changed, but because I did.
"Alright," the media coordinator says. "We’ll start with questions."
The first one is predictable.
"Luka, talk us through the final shift. What were you seeing on that breakaway?"
I answer. I talk about the angle, the timing, and the pass. The way the goalie’s glove dipped low a half a second too late. Hockey is easy to explain because it’s honest and because it’s something I’ve been doing for so long, I no longer have to think about it—like muscle memory.
Another question follows.
Then another.
I keep my voice even, the way I always do, but tonight it doesn’t feel like armor. It feels like my choice.
Somewhere near the back, movement catches my eye.
A woman steps into the doorway as if she belongs there, as if she knows the rhythm of this room now, as if she’s not afraid of microphones or men with too much confidence and no boundaries.
Natalia.
A week ago, she was still sleeping at her mom’s place, trying to rebuild her life from the ground up. Then she started staying over—one night, then another—her boxes appearing in my hallway bit by bit until even she had to stop pretending she was "just staying over." I finally convinced her she’d sleep a hell of a lot better naked in my bed, and neither of us looked back.
Maybe to some people it would seem fast, us living together already, but it doesn’t feel fast to me. I’ve waited my whole life for Natalia, and I’m not wasting another night without her.
Now she lives with me.
She moved in quietly… Naturally. Like she didn’t even realize she’d already become permanent.
She stays near the wall of the press room, not pushing forward, not making herself the story. She’s dressed in dark jeans and an oversized Hawkeyes coat she’s already unbuttoned, my jersey underneath, hair down over her shoulders. Her expression is bright, open, and for a second, it hits me so hard I almost lose my place.
Because the first time I saw her, she was in the back of a room like this.
Watching me.
Pulling my attention away from questions I should have been answering.
I remember missing a reporter’s question because I couldn’t stop looking at her mouth, at her eyes, at the fact that she didn’t look at me like I was untouchable. She looked at me as if I were a problem she intended to solve.
Tonight she looks different.
Not like she’s not bracing for impact anymore.
Her smile spreads wide when my eyes find hers, and it’s not subtle, not careful, not something she tries to hide. It’s the kind of smile that makes you believe in things you spent years calling weakness.
A reporter asks a question from the front row, and I miss it.
Not because I’m distracted by the room, but because I’m distracted by her. Yet again.
I shake my head once, the ghost of a laugh in my chest, and glance back toward the reporter.
