Page 67 of Playing Her Game

Rez's expression goes flat. Threatening. The muscle in his jaw tightens visibly even from thirty rows up.

When play resumes, he moves like violence contained in muscle and speed. He strips the puck from an opponent with brutal efficiency, shoulder-checking him into the boards with a crack that echoes through sudden silence. He accelerates past two defenders, legs pumping, and sends a shot toward the net that cracks against the crossbar hard enough to make the whole goal shudder and ring through the arena like a struck bell.

"Oh, he's pissed," Gabe says, delighted.

Rez plays like he's known to play when properly motivated—all predatory grace and controlled aggression—and yes, it is sexy as hell. For three twenty-minute periods, I revel in it.

The Chicago Phoenixes win.

CHAPTER 12

GAME OVER

Rez

Ipull my phone out and thumb through to Gabe's name.

Me:

You overstepped.

The message goes through. Three dots appear almost immediately.

Gabe:

Somebody had to make a move.

I stare at the screen. He thinks this is funny that he’s done me a favor. I'm not giving him the argument I want to when he wants while I still have press to do.

Me:

Be parked beside my vehicle in the players' lot when I finish.

I shove the phone into my pocket and head toward the media room. The win doesn't matter right now. The three points don't matter. What matters is that Gabe brought her into my building without asking me first and dressed her in his jersey like a joke. Right now I don’t see the humor in it.

The press conference room is already full. I take my seat at the table, Bishop beside me, and wait for the first question.

A reporter near the front raises his hand. "Daniil, there's been some discussion online about the attack on the woman in Brooklyn. Can you comment on where that investigation stands?"

I keep my expression neutral. "I've given the information I received to the proper authorities. That's where it belongs."

I don't mention the IG message. I don't describe the video. Tell them the footage showed men surrounding her, their movements deliberate, their positioning calculated, their next move clear. What I saw suggested intent beyond fans getting out of hand. The possibility that they meant to harm her worse sits under my skin like a splinter I can't pull out.

I'm furious. I want every single person involved held accountable, by me.

"Is that a threat?" another reporter asks.

Before I can answer, fuck no, it’s a promise, Bishop leans forward.

"The proper authorities in Chicago and Brooklyn have the information," he says, his voice calm and deliberate. "They'll hold those responsible accountable. The Phoenixes and Bears can be rivals on the ice and still stand together. This league is a family, and the safety of those that come spend their hard-earned money and time with us, they’re family. These people were not.”

I glance at him. He doesn't look at me, just keeps his attention on the reporters.

"Anyone visiting our barns deserves to be safe," Bishop continues. "Anyone visiting theirs deserves the same. We're not excusing an attack because the victim is connected to the opposing team. That's not what rivalry means."

The room settles. A few reporters scribble notes. Some nod. But it’s clear they like his answer a hell of a lot better than they’d like mine.

I keep my answers controlled for the rest of the conference. I don't reveal what I intend to do next. The video is still in my mind. The men who surrounded Anna, the way they moved, the way they looked at her—none of it disappears just because I'm sitting in front of cameras.