Page 120 of Broken Blades

Chastity. Standing at the glass, hands pressed against it, smiling so wide it lit her entire face. Cheering. Proud.

Proud of me.

Something in my chest twisted, tightened, pulled in a direction I had no business going.

I hated the feeling. But I liked it. But I hated that I liked it.

She waved, small and uncertain, like she wasn't sure I'd see her in the chaos.

I saw her. I always saw her.

And that was the problem.

The cameras clicked like insect wings—constant, invasive, hungry.

I sat in the chair they'd dragged me to, jersey half-peeled to my waist, shoulders still buzzing with leftover adrenaline. Sweat cooled against my skin. My hair dripped. Every muscle in my body screamed from three periods of controlled violence.

But I forced myself still. Composed. The predator at rest.

The first reporter didn't waste time. "Wyatt, any comments on the rumors you're dating your ex-wife's company's executive's daughter?"

I let the silence stretch. Long enough they shifted uncomfortably. Long enough the cameras zoomed in tighter.

Then I smiled. Slow. Rude. Deadly charming. "You make it sound complicated. I like her. She likes me. Adults date."

A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the room.

Another reporter—younger, hungrier—leaned forward. "But isn't she connected to your ex-wife's merger⁠—?"

I leaned into the microphone, cutting through whatever narrative they were trying to spin. "You're asking the wrong guy. I barely understand my own taxes."

Laughter erupted. Genuine this time. Even a few of the cameramen grinned.

I didn't.

A third reporter tried, voice sharp with that particular brand of accusatory journalism that thought it was clever. "Wyatt, some say the relationship is good PR⁠—"

I cut her off with a look that could break granite.

The room went silent.

"If this were PR, I'd have shaved, and she'd be here looking bored." I paused, let them hang on every word. "But she's not bored with me. Trust me."

Gasps. Scandalized giggles. Someone in the back muttered "holy shit" loud enough I heard it.

I stood, every inch of six-foot-three towering over the podium.

"Next question." Beat. "Actually, never mind. I'm done."

I walked out to reporters shouting after me, questions overlapping into white noise I didn't bother processing.

The locker room door shut behind me with a heavy slam.

Silence. Finally.

I stripped off the rest of my gear mechanically—shoulder pads, shin guards, skates. Every movement automatic after years of routine. But my mind wasn't on the game.

It was on her face pressed against the suite glass. On the way she'd defended me to Barbara. On the kiss she'd pressed to my cheek that still burned like a brand.