Chapter 19 – Apology Tour
Who Grovelled Best
Bash
I never mention her name at these interviews… it feels too raw, as if speaking it might break me.
That's the first thing people notice. After the games, when reporters shove microphones in my face, asking who I dedicate my wins to, I always smile when I think of her.
"Someone who taught me what strength looks like," I say. "She doesn't need grand gestures, but that's what I want to give her. What she values is honesty. Loyalty."
"Isshethe woman in your life, Bash?" a petite blonde reporter teases. "Is that who you are playing for? A lady friend?"
"You could say that," I mutter with a choked laugh, "if she were speaking to me. I messed up big time, and if she ever lets me back into her life, I'll do whatever it takes to make things right between us."
"So, who's the lucky woman?" shouts another journalist.
"What's her name, Bash?" a different voice calls from the back.
"Come on, give us a scoop."
I lift my hands, trying to slow the flood of questions. "Let me be clear. I don't have a girlfriend. I have a friend I care for deeply, who happens to be a woman. I jumped to the wrong conclusion and accused her of something she didn't do," I run a hand through my hair. "It cost me, and she hasn't spoken to me since."
The chatter buzzes around me as the media circus presses in, microphones surging toward me. But I keep going, despite the noise.
I look straight into the camera of one of the major networks.
"Firebird," I breathe. "I hope you're listening."
The room seems to tilt. My legs give out, and instead of bracing, I let myself drop to my knees beside the podium. Seems fitting. Camera flashes explode, and the press erupts around me.
"I'm sorry for what I said," I continue, my voice breaking slightly. "I was wrong. I know you've always been honest with me. I miss your friendship, your smile—everything about you. Please, give me the chance to make this right. I promise never to hurt you again."
For a moment, I let myself drift, thinking of her, as I often do, while the press roars around me, fading into the edges of my mind. I remember the first time I met her at the club. I immediately noticed the air of sadness around her.
A woman that beautiful should never have any reason to be sad,I thought.
The sadness gave way as she threw her head back in delight and called me a player. Her eyes sparkling, her hair hanging down in luscious curls. I was drawn to her.
But there's more to her than her looks. She's beautiful inside as well.
We'd just finished ice skating, and I noticed her fingers tinged slightly grey from her Raynaud's. She had to be in pain, yet barely acknowledged it, sipping a cup ofcocoa, fingers curled around the warmth. She looked at me so intently as we got to know each other that for a few breaths, it felt like I was the only person in her world. Everything else had ceased to exist.
No other woman had affected me as she did. Too often, I'd been treated like a prize to be claimed, admired from the outside rather than valued for who I really am. People call me handsome, and it draws women in, but I need someone who cares forme, not for how I look or what I can give. Amelia was the first to make me feel truly seen. To her, I wasn't a trophy.
The noise of the press begins to seep back in as thoughts of Amelia fade, and questions are being thrown at me.
"Who's Firebird, Bash?" a reporter shouts, thrusting a mic at me.
I’m still on one knee when I answer, rising to my feet as Coach moves in.
"Thanks for carrying my apology, hopefully to her ears, but we're done with that line of questioning. It's time to talk hockey, not my lack of game."
It doesn't let up. Cameras keep clicking. Mics inch closer. No one's interested in stats or strategy.
Coach steps up to the podium, moving fully in front of me, lifting a hand. The chatter dies down.
"Alright, guys," he says firmly, sweeping his gaze across the room, "that's enough. Let's get back to what we all came here for—let's get down to the sport."
