I shouldn’t.
I know I shouldn’t.
Russo’s hand catches my arm.
“Keep going,” he mutters.
But I turn.
The reporter is right there. Mid-thirties, maybe. Press badge hanging from his neck. Mic already raised.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Did any of you actually know?” he presses. “Was she using her assets to motivate the team before matches??”
Something snaps.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I step forward and swing.
The impact is immediate.
A sharp crack of contact that echoes louder than the shouting around us.
The reporter stumbles back, more shocked than hurt, hand flying to his face.
Everything erupts.
Voices shouting.
Cameras flashing.
“Zane-!”
“What the hell-!”
“Hey - HEY -!”
Hands grab me.
Russo.
Strong, steady, pulling me back.
“Enough,” he says sharply. “That’s enough.”
I’m breathing hard.
My chest is tight, adrenaline flooding through me like I’m still on the ice.
“That was out of line,” Russo adds, lower now. Not angry. Just firm.
“I know.”
But I don’t sound sorry. I don’t feel sorry.
