And just before he crosses the threshold, she calls after him.
“Oh, and for the record,” she says, almost sweetly.
Aaron pauses, glancing back.
“Rhodes’ dickisbigger. No measuring contest needed.”
He glares, but she just raises one perfectly unimpressed brow.
I can’t help it—I grin, pulling her flush against me the second he’s out of sight, flipping her around so she has to look up at me, my hands wrapping tightly around her.
“You know,” I murmur, brushing a kiss against her mouth, “I knew it was, too. But it’s nice to hear confirmation.”
She smirks against my lips. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. And now I’ve got to get to the media interviews,” I mumble, not ready to be done kissing her yet.
“I know, that’s why I’m here. I’ve come to escort you.”
I grin down at her.
We walk hand-in-hand through the hallways, stopping when we get to the conference. Coach is standing outside with Kelsey, waiting for me. I let go of Monroe’s hand, but turn and give her a quick kiss, Coach be damned. If I wanted to kiss my girl, I was going to kiss her.
“I’ll be right outside,” she whispers and pushes me forward. Coach stares at the two of us, face unreadable in its neutrality, before putting his game face on. The media room is buzzing, but I’m not listening yet. I’m staring at my phone.
Beck (11:23am):Keep your cool and don’t punch anyone in the face.
JD (11:28am):stick to the script Kelsey gave you and don’t give them an inch. they’re fucking sharks.
Tyler (11:30am):knock ’em dead, cap.
Another ping—Sloane.
Sloane (11:31am):You got this. Proud of you.
I huff out a breath, rolling my shoulders back, tension still tight but easing slightly. I put my phone in my pocket. Time to face the music. We walk to the table, where the microphones are lined up like traps. The second we sit, Kelsey takes control.
“Thank you all for coming. I know many of you have questions regarding the recent rumors involving Rhodes McKnight. Today, we are providing full transparency to put those rumors to rest.”
She flips open the folder in front of her, voice crisp and steady as she lays out the facts.
“After thorough investigation, we’ve confirmed the following—Rhodes McKnight was being harassed continually over the last few months by an individual with familial ties. He did not give in to the threats, and the party decided to falsely accuse Mr. McKnight of inter-sport betting, game-throwing, and profit splitting. This person has been served papers by Mr. McKnight, and we will be proceeding with pressing charges against him. Mr. McKnight has never and would never compromise his position as captain or standing in the NHL by participating in any such events.”
The room stirs. Flashes of cameras, reporters scribbling like their lives depend on it. The NHL commissioner steps up to the next mic.
“The investigation against Mr. McKnight has been closed, as no sufficient evidence to support the claims has been found.”
Coach Abrams takes over after that, voice steady as stone.
“I’ve coached Rhodes for years,” he says, looking directly into the sea of cameras. “He supports this team with discipline, grit, and integrity, both on and off the ice. The last week has been difficult—for him, for all of us—but we stand behind him.”
There’s a slight pause before it’s my turn.
I shift forward, adjusting the mic, heart pounding in my chest.
“I’m not going to pretend this hasn’t been hard,” I start, voice even. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. Hell, just in this season.” A few chuckles from the reporters. “But this?” I glance out over the sea of cameras, flashes going off like lightning. “This wasn’t one of them.”
I let the silence sit for a second before I continue.