Show time.
“Bennett will take questions for two minutes.” Julianne holds up two fingers. “Then he has to get ready for warm-ups.” She steps aside and I face the reporters, rolling my right shirt sleeve up to the elbow to match the left. Perfect symmetry.
Control.
“Evening.” I tip my chin at the crowd, expression neutral.
“Bennett,” the blonde reporter waves at me. “Back in the lineup tonight.”
I flash a quick smile. “That’s the plan.”
“You’re eligible to play after coming off league probation. Do you regret what happened?” She shoves the microphone at me and I try not to flinch.
“I regret that it escalated. I’ve taken responsibility for my actions. I respect the league’s process and I’m focused on my team.”
I add nothing, spit out the lines like we rehearsed.
“Some fans are calling you a hero. Others are calling you reckless.” Another reporter jumps in. “What do you say to that?”
My jaw tightens, but my tone stays even. “I mean — obviously I prefer hero. But I’m not discussing a private situation. I’m here to play hockey.”
Shit.
Off-script. Prince bristles behind the reporter, scowling.
“What did you learn from probation?” A short, balding dude throws out the question.
I recite the exact words I practiced with Tori. “Accountability. Discipline.”
Then, because I’m an idiot and can’t help myself, I add, “Control.”
It’s the truest thing I’ve said this entire interview.
Tori’s fingers slide back and forth along her gold chain.
Once. Twice.
She doesn’t dare catch my eye.
Julianne flashes her fingers at me, signaling the two-minute mark.
The short dude keeps going, ignoring the time restraint. “Are you worried something like that might happen again?”
“No. I’m locked in.”
Julianne steps forward, shutting down the interview. “That’s all the time we have.”
The cameras go dark. Prince glares at me from behind the reporters, a silent warning.
Julianne ushers me away, her hand on my shoulder. I stride down the hallway toward the locker room. I move past Tori, her posture perfect.
“Under control,” I murmur as I pass, low enough that only she can hear.
She bristles slightly. A micro movement, her only tell.
I hustle away before I do something that proves I’m lying.
The locker room’s loud, reeking of sweat and disinfectant, rock music bouncing off the tile walls. The boys are already halfway dressed as I hustle over to my locker to get ready.
