Page 42 of With the Assist

There it is.

My shoulders stiffen with the instinctive urge to retreat inward, to clamp down before my thoughts spiral somewhere I don’t want them to go.

“How do you respond to criticism that your performance has been mediocre by your standards?”

Mediocre.

The word sinks like a stone in my gut because it’s not entirely wrong. I’ve been trying like hell not to let that thought take root, though.

I exhale slowly through my nose, buying myself half a second.

“Hockey’s a long season. There are stretches where things click and stretches where you’re grinding, and right now my focus is on consistency and contributing where I’m needed.”

A couple of heads nod. Pens move.

Another voice cuts in. “Do you feel pressure to prove something tonight?”

Pressure. Prove. Perform.

I keep my gaze forward. “Pressure comes with the job. If you let it get in your head, that’s when you make mistakes. I’m trying to stay present and play my game.”

It’s the right answer. I know that. Still, the truth underneath it hums uncomfortably. Staying present has been harder lately because a part of me knows exactly what they’re seeing, and that part of me is terrified they’re right.

Sure, last night was the best game I’ve played in a while, but one game’s not enough to secure my contract.

The questions shift again, mercifully, toward the team, strategy, and other topics I can discuss without feeling exposed. I relax slightly, the edge dulling as I fall back into rhythm.

And then someone at the front raises a phone.

“So,” she says, her tone bright, almost amused, “care to explain this?”

She turns the screen toward me.

It’s a photo from my lunch date. I’m opening Wesley’s car door. She’s mid-laugh, head tipped back so the light catches her face. It’s harmless.

And it hits me harder than any hockey question they could’ve asked.

“Is this the same woman you donated two hundred thousand dollars to spend the day with?” Another reporter adds quickly. “The soccer captain?”

There’s roaring in my ears.

I hadn’t planned on this. I hadn’t planned on saying anything, on making it real outside of our carefully constructed bubble.Commenting formally seemed pointless when it was all a temporary arrangement.

We should’ve known better. Privacy is not a luxury I’m afforded.

My instinct is to deflect and downplay it until it disappears. But if I do that, if I shrug it off like it’s nothing, I don’t just protect myself. I undercut her. Her plan. And potentially her captaincy.

That’s not an option.

“Yes,” I say, jaw tightening.

A ripple goes through the group. Someone murmurs her name. Someone else leans forward.

“Who is she to you?” the first reporter presses.

I don’t hesitate this time, even as my heart starts to pound.

“She’s my girlfriend.”