THANE
I’d taken slapshots to the ribs at ninety miles an hour and gotten back on the ice.
Played through a separated shoulder during the playoffs, spent six weeks pretending it didn't hurt to lift my arm above my head, and scored the game-winning goal anyway. I had skated into hostile arenas packed with twenty thousand people who wanted nothing more than to watch my team lose.
None of those moments came close to this.
The microphone in front of me might as well have been a loaded weapon.
A fresh wave of camera flashes erupted from somewhere near the front row. The bright bursts reflected off the polished tabletop and forced me to blink. Every instinct I possessed wanted to be somewhere else. On the ice. In the locker room. Trapped in an elevator. I honestly wasn't picky.
Beside the stage, members of the team's communications staff stood ready to manage the inevitable fallout. They looked calm. Professional. Prepared. I envied them. Because none ofthem were about to tell the world a secret they'd spent years protecting.
A reporter shifted in his seat and adjusted the recorder sitting on the table in front of him. The small movement drew my attention, and suddenly I became aware of every minute detail in the room. The hum of the overhead lights. The faint scent of coffee. The scratch of a pen moving across a notebook.
My pulse hammered beneath my collar.
Years of professional hockey had taught me how to hide nerves. Fans saw confidence. Opposing players saw confidence. Reporters saw confidence. Even most of my teammates saw confidence.
The truth was that I was terrified.
My parents knew.
My publicist knew.
A handful of executives and communications staff knew.
But some of the people closest to me didn't. The teammates I saw almost every day. The men I'd trusted beside me on the ice for years. The friends who thought they knew everything important about me.
Including Tannen.
Of everyone in my life, Tannen was probably the person who knew me best. We'd celebrated wins together, survived losing streaks together, and spent countless hours on planes, buses, and road trips talking about everything and nothing. If someone had asked me who I trusted most in the world, his name would have been near the top of the list.
And even he didn't know.
A knot tightened in my stomach. Part of me wondered whether he'd be angry. Not about the truth itself. About being shut out of it.
The room around me blurred briefly as another thought pushed its way to the front of my mind.
Kieran.
The memory arrived without warning. A crooked smile. Christmas lights reflected in warm brown eyes. Birthday cake sitting untouched between us.
For the first time all afternoon, the relentless worry eased its grip.
Kieran hadn't known who I was.
He hadn't known about endorsements, interviews, sponsorships, or statistics. He hadn't known how many goals I'd scored or how many jerseys hung in closets across the city.
He had only known me. And somehow, that had been enough.
A movement near the front of the room pulled me back to the present. One of the communications directors gave a small nod, the signal we'd agreed on earlier. The room gradually settled as reporters realized the press conference was about to begin.
I drew a slow breath and released it carefully.
Whatever happened next, there was no backing out now.
The communications director stepped toward the podium positioned near the front of the room and offered a brief introduction. I barely heard most of it. My attention had narrowed to the microphone sitting inches in front of me and the dozens of cameras pointed in my direction.
