For a second, I don’t move. “What do you mean, ‘out’?”
“A reporter, the one from the gala, got hold of the story,” she says. “Someone must’ve tipped him off. He ran the story right before the game started. If you’ve checked your phone, I’m sure you’ve already got messages. My mom, dad, and Steven have all texted me. Evan, too.” She adds.
I blink and my stomach drops. “Jesus.”
She nods, guilt written all over her face. “They’re going to ask about it. About me. About your brother.” Her voice breaks a little. “I just didn’t want you walking in there blind.”
The hallway feels smaller now, weighed down by all the things she won’t say. My jaw works as I drag a hand through my hair, the adrenaline from the game sparking all over again, but differently this time.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “For telling me.”
She takes a step closer, like she’s afraid to let me go. “Whatever you say in there, just—don’t let them twist it. Don’t let them make it something it’s not.”
I nod, forcing a breath that doesn’t quite settle. “Guess it’s time to face it head-on.”
Her eyes meet mine. “You always do.”
***
The press room buzzes with tension, the kind that crawls under your skin.
The lights are too bright, hot against my face, and everything smells like stale coffee and cheap cologne. Microphones linethe table in front of me, cameras clicking in rhythm, waiting. Watching.
It’s not excitement in the air—it’s something sharper.
Like they’re all waiting for blood.
I roll my shoulders once and press my hands flat on the table, trying to look calm. My body’s still wired from the game, adrenaline burning under my skin, but I lock it down.
The first few questions are easy ones. Things like our zone coverage, line changes, and power play adjustments. Stuff I could answer in my sleep. I keep it professional and to the point. I’m not giving them anything they can twist into a story.
Across the room, the AD gives me a small nod, but I can feel him watching, waiting to see which version of me showed up tonight. The one who loses his temper, or the one who finally figured out how to keep it in check.
And then I see him.
Second row. Same grin. Same smug gleam in his eyes. Trevor—the reporter who’s been hounding me for a comment since I left the NHL. The same guy who ambushed me at the Christmas gala.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees like he’s been counting down to this moment.
“Coach Barlowe,” he says, smooth and practiced. “That little flare-up at the bench tonight looked… familiar. Do you think Kolmont’s taking a risk putting their trust in you?”
A low ripple moves through the room. A mixture of amusement and curiosity. I can feel the shift, the subtle lean of every camera in my direction.
The hit lands. I absorb it.
My jaw tightens once before I nod. “You’re not wrong,” I say evenly. “It did look familiar. Passion tends to leave a mark.”
I let the silence hang, just long enough for his smirk to slip. “But there’s a difference between losing control and leading withit. My players stayed locked in, we stuck to our system, and we earned the win. That’s what Kolmont brought me here to do.”
Cameras flash brighter. Someone lets out a low whistle. Across the room, the AD hides a smile behind his hand.
But the reporter isn’t done. They never are.
He leans back in his chair, stretching like a man who knows he’s about to light a match.
“Of course,” he drawls, all smug satisfaction. “I’ve heard from sources that say your passion isn’t limited to the rink. Word is, you’ve been seeing a Ms. Tessa St. James—your brother’s ex, if I’m not mistaken. Not exactly the redemption story Kolmont had in mind, huh? Your family drama spilling into the locker room?”
The room erupts.
