Chapter 78 80

Chapter 78 80
LARA PARKER

The rink buzzed with an energy I could feel from the moment we stepped through the media entrance, that electric hum of a packed house on a Friday night game. Evans walked beside me, laptop bag slung over one shoulder, scanning the credential sheet the press liaison had handed us.

"Home game against the Falcons." He said, his accent flattening the vowels in a way I was still getting used to. "Should be a good one. Their captain has been on a scoring streak."

"White Phantoms have not been doing too bad either." I said, keeping my tone light, professional.

Evans hummed in agreement, flipping through his notes without much thought to it. We found our spot in the press box first, setting up our laptops and cameras, before making our way down to the ice level for the pregame access. The rink itself was a sight, ice freshly resurfaced and gleaming under the lights, the stands slowly filling with a wall of jerseys and painted faces, the noise growing louder by the minute. Somewhere above us, a group of fans had already started a chant, stomping their feet against the metal bleachers in rhythm, the sound rolling down toward the ice like thunder.

"Feels different for a night game." I commented, glancing around at the fans already chanting from the upper deck.

"Home crowd always brings something extra." Evans said, adjusting his camera strap. "You will see it once the puck drops. Different energy entirely."

We moved through the media area together, catching a few quotes from the assistant coaches before the warmups began, and I found myself falling into an easy rhythm with him. He would nod toward a good angle for a shot, I would jot down a quote he might have missed, and somewhere between the interviews and the note taking, something close to a system started forming between us.

"You are quick with the pen." He remarked at one point, watching me scribble down a quote from the goalie coach without so much as glancing at the page. "I still have to look at my notes twice to make sure I got it right."

"Years of practice." I said, flashing him a small grin. "You get fast when your editor yells at you enough times for missing a good line."

He huffed out something close to a laugh, the sound catching me a little off guard given how reserved he usually was. It was nice, actually, seeing this side of him start to peek through.

"You good?" He asked a moment later, noticing me pressing a hand briefly against my stomach as a wave of nausea rolled through me, unwelcome and sudden.

"I am fine." I said, forcing a smile, straightening up before he could look too closely. "Just hungry I think."

He studied me for a beat longer than necessary, like he was not entirely convinced, but did not push. A few minutes later, he returned from wherever he had wandered off to with two cups in hand, one of which he held out to me.

"Black tea." He said, holding the cup out. "You still like this, right?"

"Thank you." I said, taking it, wrapping my hands around the warm cup gratefully. "That is really sweet of you."

He waved it off, though I caught the faintest hint of color rising to his cheeks before he turned back toward the ice. "You threw up in the office yesterday, after the meeting." He added, almost as an afterthought, though I could hear the concern laced underneath it. "Are you sure you are alright? You do not have to push through the game if you are not feeling well."

"I am okay, really." I said, offering him a reassuring smile. "Probably just something I ate. I promise I am fine."

He nodded slowly, though he did not look fully convinced, before gesturing toward the tunnel where the sound of skates against ice began to echo. "They are coming out."

The arena erupted the moment the White Phantoms filed out onto the rink for warmups, the crowd rising to their feet in a wave of noise that vibrated through the stands, the announcer's voice barely cutting through the roar. I spotted Killian easily among them, tall, broad shouldered, that familiar easy confidence in the way he skated even during warmups, gliding across the ice like it belonged to him.

His eyes found mine almost instantly, scanning the press area like he already knew exactly where to look. He offered the smallest nod in my direction, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly before he caught himself and smoothed his expression back into something more neutral, more careful. His gaze lingered a beat longer than it probably should have, drifting to Evans standing beside me, something unreadable flickering across his face before he skated off to rejoin his line.

I glanced away quickly, pretending to busy myself with my notes, hoping Evans had not noticed the exchange for what it was.

The Falcons filed out shortly after, their captain met with a chorus of boos from the home crowd, and Evans and I settled back into our rhythm, trading notes and observations as the teams finished their warmups and the game got underway.

The first period started well enough, both teams trading shots, the crowd rising and falling with every near miss. But something felt off about Killian from the very first shift, a hesitation in his stride that had not been there in warmups.

"Your captain looks a bit off tonight." Evans commented halfway through the period, brows furrowing as he watched Killian miss an easy pass, the puck sliding off his stick awkwardly and straight into the Falcons' possession.

"He does." I agreed, frowning slightly as I watched him shake his head, clearly frustrated with himself, skating back to the bench with his jaw set tight.

It only got worse as the game progressed. By the second period, Killian had turned the puck over twice in their own zone, missed a wide open shot that should have been an easy goal, sailing it clean over the crossbar, and taken a penalty for a hit that looked entirely unlike him, sloppy, uncharacteristically reckless, the kind of hit that had the referee's whistle blowing before he even hit the boards.

"He is all over the place." Evans muttered, typing quickly on his laptop. "Falcons are capitalizing on every mistake. This is not going to look good in the recap."

I could not help but wonder what was wrong with him. He had seemed fine this morning, more than fine even. But watching him now, the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes kept flickering toward the press box more often than they should during actual gameplay, something clearly was not right.

Every so often, when his gaze drifted my way and lingered a second too long, I felt Evans shift slightly closer, whether he realized it or not, a hand occasionally landing on my shoulder to point something out on the ice, or brushing against my arm as he leaned over to show me a stat on his screen. It did not mean anything, I told myself. He was probably just like this once he warmed up to someone, and it seemed we were finally past the stage of stiff small talk.

By the third period, the Falcons had pulled ahead by three, the home crowd growing restless, boos mixing with groans as another White Phantoms possession fell apart in the neutral zone. Killian barely resembled himself out there, a shadow of the player who had skated circles around defenders just days ago.

By the time the final buzzer sounded, the scoreboard read a decisive loss for the White Phantoms, the Falcons celebrating on the ice while Killian stood near the bench, jaw clenched, clearly displeased with himself and the outcome.

"Rough night for him." Evans said, closing his laptop with a sigh. "That was not the Killian Wilde I have seen play before."

"No." I murmured, still watching him from where we stood, worry creeping into my chest despite myself. "It really was not."

Evans glanced at me then, something unreadable passing over his features before he offered a small, reassuring smile. "You should go grab your postgame quotes early, beat the crowd at the locker room. I can finish up the notes here."

"Are you sure?" I asked, already gathering my things.

"Go." He said, waving me off. "I have got this covered."

I threw him a grateful smile before making my way down toward the tunnel, my mind racing through possibilities of what could have thrown him off his game so badly. He had been fine, more than fine, that morning.

Something had happened. I just did not know what yet.