"Can you repeat that?" I ask.
A few chuckles ripple through the room. They think it’s harmless, like fatigue from a professional athlete who put everything he had out on that ice tonight. They don’t know that it’s about her.
The reporter repeats the question, something about the team’s momentum heading into playoffs, and I answer it. Then another question comes, and another, until the conversation drifts the way it always does when people run out of hockey to talk about and start circling anything they think might be interesting.
"Luka," a woman from a sports network says, leaning forward slightly, "we’ve seen a few changes in your media presence the last month. You’ve been more… visible. More engaged. Is that intentional?"
I hear the underlying question.
Are you being managed again?
Are you still in damage control mode?
I should give a neutral answer. Something about focusing on the team and staying disciplined and taking it one game at a time.
Instead, I let my gaze drift to the back of the room again.
Natalia is still there, arms folded loosely, watching me like she knows what I’m about to do, like she’s trying not to look amused by it.
The reporter follows my line of sight, eyes flicking behind her briefly.
I look back at the microphone.
"Yes," I say simply.
A few heads tilted. Pens pause.
I continue before anyone can twist my words into something else.
"It’s intentional," I say. "Because I’m done letting other people write my story."
The room stills slightly, that subtle hunger for something quoteworthy sharpening. I can feel it. I don’t flinch from it.
Another reporter jumps in. "Is this related to your recent… situation? The VELVT controversy and Olympic Committee discussions?"
I feel the old instinct to shut down and deflect. To freeze them out with silence. But that isn’t what Natalia taught me, not directly, but by refusing to play the same game.
"It’s related to everything," I answer honestly. "I made choices I regret. I trusted the wrong people. I learned from it."
That’s all I give them. I don’t throw blame, and I don’t apologize into the void. Healing isn’t easy, but I’m working on it. Natalia deserves the best version of me, and so do I.
The coordinator calls time a few questions later. Chairs scrape. Reporters stand. The room begins to break apart in a rush of movement and murmurs.
I stand, sliding my chair back, and I don’t wait for the last person to leave before I look at her.
Natalia is still in the back, still smiling like she’s keeping something bright inside herself.
I walked toward her without hesitation.
I can feel eyes tracking me. I can hear the flick of cameras trying to catch whatever this is.
I don’t care.
Natalia’s smile softens as I get closer, her eyes shining with something that makes my chest tighten in a way that isn’t painful.
"You didn’t even answer half the questions," she teases quietly when I stop in front of her.
"I answered enough," I say.
