I kept my face still. “We were outplayed,” I responded. “That’s all there is to it.”
“You’ve been in the spotlight a lot the last few days,” another voice cut in, louder now, pushing to be heard over the others. “How much of that is carrying over into your game right now?”
My jaw tightened.
“Not at all. I played the best I could. So did my team.” I sucked in a sharp breath before adding, “We all leave everything in the locker room, step out onto the ice and give the game our all. Thank you.”
“Do you feel like off-ice distractions are impacting?—”
Ignoring the question, I let Bea conclude my interview. I stepped back before they could wind up again, the movement subtle but final. Someone tried to throw another question, voice rising to catch me before I left it.
“Alois—about the press conference?—”
I was already gone.
My footsteps echoed harder than they should have, sharp against the floor as I moved past the cluster of media and back toward the quieter stretch that led to the exit. The noise dropped behind me in uneven waves, still present, still pressing, but no longer directly in front of me.
Bea fell into step beside me without touching me. “You kept it clean,” she assured, voice low, even.
“Nothing to clean up,” I replied.
“That’s not true,” she snickered.
I stopped. So did she.
The pause stretched just long enough to register before I turned my head. She met my gaze without hesitation, expression still composed, still exactly what it needed to be in a space like this. But there was something underneath it—something sharper, more aware.
“Does it matter?” I growled.
“Oui, absolument,” she whispered.
“Touché,” I hissed, grabbing for her hand to play the good boyfriend role yet again.
The elevator doorsof the hotel slid shut with a quiet, final click that felt louder than it should have. The hum of the cables kicked in beneath our feet, steady and mechanical as we started to rise, the mirrored walls catching both of us in fragments I didn’t want to look at and couldn’t fully ignore.
She stood beside me—close enough that I could feel theheat off her through the thin layer of fabric between us, far enough that no one would question it if they saw.
My jaw churned as Marco’s voice cut back through my head, clear as if he was still next to me. The laughter. The looks. The way the entire locker room had shifted the second her name had become part of the story.
I exhaled slowly through my nose, dragging my hand once across the back of my neck, trying to shake it loose.
“Locker room seemed to like our little spectacle,” I snarled finally, the words coming out rougher than I intended.
That got her attention. Her brows knitted in just slightly as her head cocked to the side. “Excuse me?” she snapped.
I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head once. “Forget it.”
“No,” she chastised immediately. “Don’t do that.”
I laughed under my breath. Not amused. “Don’t do what?”
“Say something like that and then shut down,” she replied, turning toward me fully now. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
“Whole room was laughing,” I barked back, meeting her glare. “Before we even hit the ice.”
Her expression didn’t change—but something in her eyes sharpened. “And that’s my fault?”
“Yes,” I shot back. “It’s your press conference,” I continued, the words coming faster the angrier I got. “Your narrative. Your job to keep it from turning into a circus.”