They always looked harried around me.
Char Anderson stood at the front of the group—Director of PR, sharp eyes, sharper posture. Next to her, Sarah Yu’s expression was controlled in the way only brilliant people got when they were annoyed. Two interns flanked them, clutching clipboards like shields.
They watched me.
Liability.
I met Char’s gaze briefly. Her jaw tightened. Not fear—calculation.
I pretended not to notice and kept moving.
That was the lie I told myself: that I didn’t care.
In the media corridor, the lights were even worse—too bright, too sterile, designed to expose. The air smelled like cologne and old coffee and the faint chemical tang of cleaning solution.
Reporters clustered behind a rope line, badges swinging, phones already up. Vultures with credentials.
As soon as I appeared, the noise rose.
“Müller!”
“Alois!”
“Over here?—”
“Was that planned?”
“Are you worried about supplemental discipline?”
“Do you regret it?”
Regret was their favorite word. Regret meant remorse. Remorse meant you’d accept their narrative. It meant you’d perform.
I didn’t perform.
I stepped up to the mic stand and planted my feet, shoulder-width, hands loose at my sides. The stance looked calm. It wasn’t. It was containment.
A reporter in a Frosthawks tie leaned forward, eyes gleaming like he’d already written the headline.
“Alois, that was your fourth fight this season,” he pressed. “Do you think you’re setting the right example for the younger players?”
I could feel Char’s stare from the side, sharp enough to cut.
Behind the rope, cameras clicked. A shutter sound like insect wings.
I breathed in slowly. The air tasted like metal.
“I protected my teammate,” I returned. My voice came out low, flat. “That’s the example.”
The reporter blinked. “So you don’t regret it?”
“I regret that it was necessary.”
A few murmurs. Pens scribbling.
Another voice—female, crisp. “There are people calling you reckless. Volatile. Do you have anything to say to fans who think you’re a problem for this organization?”
I looked toward the sound.