The woman had styled, long dark hair and a practiced smile that didn’t reach her eyes—polished in a way that felt intentional rather than effortless. I didn’t recognize her, which meant she was either new to this room or new to this level of access. Not nervous. Not green. Just new enough to think pushing harder would get her somewhere.
Early twenties, if I had to guess. Hungry in a way that sharpened everything—her posture, her timing, the precision of the question itself. Not the kind of reporter looking to understand. The kind looking to take something.
I didn’t know her name, but I noted her anyway, filing her alongside the kind of problems that didn’t announce themselves until they were already in your way. There was no hesitation in her, no instinct to soften the edge of what she was asking. Not local media habits. Not cautious. Not careful. Something else. A bigger appetite.
She wanted blood. Not my fists—my confession.
I let my gaze settle on her, steady.
“I can’t control what people think,” I answered. “I can control how I play.”
“And tonight?”
“Tonight,” I returned, “we won.”
The woman’s smile tightened, the kind that came from resistance, not retreat. She tried again. “Do you understand why the league might look at that and see someone who can’t manage his temper?”
A flash of heat rose in my chest.
Temper. Like I was a child.
I kept my face blank. Let the silence stretch just long enough to make her uncomfortable.
“My temper didn’t win that game,” I replied. “My team did.”
Somewhere beside me, Char inhaled sharply through her nose. It wasn’t approval. It was resignation.
I stepped back from the mic. The questions surged, louder, more frantic.
“Alois—”
“One more?—”
“Any comment on Captain Dunne’s?—”
I didn’t stop.
As I walked away, I felt it—the moment a camera caught my face at the wrong angle, the split second my mouth tightened, my eyes narrowed. The glare they loved. The one that made me look like a threat instead of a man with sore hands and a tired shoulder and too many years behind him.
Someone would post it before I made it to my stall.
Back in my corner of the locker room, I sat and stared at my hands. Ben had cleaned the blood off, wrapped the knuckles, taped them tight. The skin still looked angry underneath,bruises blooming like storm clouds. I flexed my fingers carefully.
In the mirror across from me, my face stared back—jaw rough with scruff, hair damp, eyes pale and flat from fatigue. A man built like a warning sign.
I didn’t think I was a monster. But I knew how easy it was to look like one.
My phone buzzed in my locker. I pulled it out.
A notification. Just the same photo Oliver had shown me—already circulating, already dissected.
MÜLLER LOSES IT AGAIN.
I stared at it for a second longer than I should have.
The angle. The timing. The version of me people preferred.
I locked the screen and set the phone on the bench.