CHAPTER ONE

The click of heels behind me has me quickening my pace, my blades biting into the black rubber flooring.

They never bring anything good.

“Hudson!”

Damn. Veronica can run fast in those things.

I slow anyway, despite every instinct telling me not to, and turn.

“Oui?”

“They want you for a few post-game interviews. Not the press conference—just in the hall before you go in.”

“Non.”

“Please?” she asks, her red-stained lips parting just slightly, the kind of look that works on most players. “Just a few minutes. Your last shift saved the game. You made a save that any goalie would envy after we pulled ours, and then you scored from the point to tie the game twenty seconds later.”

I exhale, already knowing how this ends. If I refuse, I hear about it from the coach, the GM, and my agent. Contract clauses. Obligations.

“Fine,” I mutter, changing direction as my teammates pass, knocking my helmet or clapping my back.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Max Murphy, our captain, says as he walks by, fully aware of how much I hate this part of the job. I usually do all I can to avoid it. 

I only grunt at him. I don’t know how he does it — night after night, smiling for the cameras, handing out sound bites like they’re part of the uniform. The media love him. Even when he’s annoyed, he accompanies his remarks with a wide smile and a gleam in his eye that disguises it.

I don’t have that ability.

On the ice, there are rules. 

Off it… not so much.

When I round the corner, Veronica’s hand on my sleeve is the only thing that keeps me moving forward. Four, maybe five reporters wait, recorders and cameras already raised.

I nod once, stepping into position, jaw tight as they finish their setup. 

And I don’t look at her.

I know she’s there.

The one who keeps asking. Watching. Waiting.

The one who wants my story.

No.

Even if she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, it doesn’t change what she is. What she does.

What she would take.

I’ve said more before.

Look where that got me.

“Hudson, Greg Smith from Hockey Insider.”

As though I don’t recognize him. He’s been around the team for years, antagonizing us, basically writing opinion pieces. Fucking Greg. 

“That was quite the play you made tonight,” he continues. A pale, thin man with a receding hairline, he shoves his recorder toward my face. “You haven’t had a game-winning goal in over two years. How does it feel to break that streak?”

“Good,” I reply.

“That’s it? Just good?” Greg’s eyebrows rise. “The fans deserve more than that, don’t they?”

I shrug. “Non.”

Another reporter steps forward, her voice cutting through the rest of the noise. 

“Hudson, you made quite a save when the net was empty. What went through your mind when you saw the puck coming toward you?”

I have no choice but to give her my attention. 

I’m instantly locked into her warm brown eyes. I can’t stop myself from noticing those flecks of gold within them that catch the light. No edge. No predatory hunger. Just…curiosity. At least she asks real questions, even if I have no intention of truly answering them.

“Stop it,” I say.

Kyra’s mouth curves. “Simple and effective. And then scoring the tying goal just twenty seconds later—what was the team’s energy like after that?”

“Better.”

Greg snorts. “Come on, Lemieux. Give us something we can use. The fans want to hear from you.”

“Fans watch the game. Not interviews.”

This earns me a glare from Greg, but something else from her. Amusement. Interest. 

“I’m not sure about that,” she says. “Fans like to know the players they watch. Especially the ones they notice.”

I don’t react to that. Not outwardly.

“Coach mentioned you’ve been working on your slap shot,” she continues. “Did that pay off tonight?”

“Yes.”

Greg jumps back in. “Is it true you’re considering retirement after this season? Sources say—”

I fix him with a hard stare. “No.”

“But—”

“I said no.”

There’s a pause. A small one, but enough for the tension to grow.

“Thanks, Hudson,” Kyra says quietly, like she knows I’m done, that I have nothing else to give. Not tonight. Not ever.

But why is she thanking me? I gave her nothing.

Veronica finally steps in. “That’s all for now. Hudson needs to get back to the locker room. We’ll be ready for the press conference shortly.”

I nod once and turn to leave, ignoring Greg’s sputtering protests about “proper journalistic procedure.”

“Well,” Veronica muses beside me, “that was something.”

“I said I’d do the interview. Never promised what I’d say.”

“It would help if you said anything at all,” she says, shaking her head at me, although there’s some affection in her gaze. Veronica’s a good sort, even if I don’t like dealing with the side of the game she represents.

The locker room is loud when I walk in, the usual post-game chaos following a win — especially an overtime win — in full swing, all laughter, music, the smell of sweat and gear that I barely notice anymore after so many years in the game. 

Our logo sits high on the wall and proud in the middle of the locker room floor, the new, custom-made cabinets surrounding the room, our numbers and names on plates above each one. Mine looks as it always does.

Clean. Bare. No photos, no mementos. No distractions. 

As I walk through the piles of hockey equipment to my place, Max spots me first on his way to the shower, as he needs to be out of here for the post-game press conference.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the man of the hour has returned from his media tour!” he announces, earning a chorus of whistles and clapping from our teammates.

I grunt, dropping onto the bench and ripping off my jersey.

“Come on, Hudson, give us the full interview experience,” Andy calls out, jumping up, still in his lower gear, to mimic holding a microphone. “So, Mr. Lemieux, how did you feel about scoring that game-tying goal?”

I pull off my elbow pads. “Fine.”

“Amazing!” Andy pretends to scribble in the air, even though none of the reporters take notes anymore. “A man of so many wonderful, descriptive words. I’m not sure why we don’t interview you more often. Now, tell us how you felt about that save?”

My shoulder pads are off next before I start untying my skates.

“Good.”

“And how do you feel about the upcoming road trip?”

I tug one skate free.

“Excited.”

The entire room erupts in laughter. Dominic slides over to my stall, wearing only his under-gear, his face flushed with victory and youth.

“Hey, I’ve been working on my interview technique,” he says, striking a pose. “Tell me, Hudson, what’s your secret to being so... economical with your words?”

I look him dead in the eye. “Practice.”

Ryan joins the group, a towel around his waist. “Leave the poor man alone. He’s already been tortured by the press.”

I nod gratefully at him.

“Though,” Ryan continues with a smirk, “it would be nice to hear more than two words from you every once in a while.”

“Three words,” I correct him, “is more than enough.”

Max laughs as he steps back out of the shower. “Seriously, though, Lemieux, that was some play. You saved our asses tonight.”

“It’s team effort,” I say, actually managing three words.

Andy shakes his head. “I’m telling you, Hudson, if you just smile once for the cameras, you’d be a fan favorite.”

I give him my best attempt at a smile—a tight grimace that makes him recoil.

“Never mind,” he says, holding up his hands. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”

Ryan claps me on the shoulder. “The media’s just doing their job, you know. Not all of them are like Greg.”

I shrug. “Same species.”

This earns another round of laughter. I continue undressing, letting it all roll over me — the noise, the ease. This is the part that matters.

Not the questions.

Not the cameras. 

Not her.

But even as I sit here, pulling off my gear, I feel it.

Her eyes. Watching. Waiting. 

And for the first time, I wonder what she would do if I ever answered her for real.

“Hey, you coming to the restaurant?” Max asks as he ties his shoes. “Coach is picking up the tab.”

“Maybe,” I reply. 

“Wow, a whole ‘maybe’!” Dominic exclaims. “The man is opening up!”

I pick up my sweaty jersey and toss it at his head, but I’m fighting a smile. These idiots are my family, and they understand me—even when I have nothing to say.

The media can have their sound bites. My real voice is here, in this locker room, where actions speak louder than words.

No one else has any right to my thoughts or my story.

No matter how beautiful she might be.