Page 43

ALDER

Personal fight club, Coach said as if he doesn’t encourage me to rough people up on the ice. But that’s the ice. I know this.

Charles Sutton's voice echoes in my head as I clip Gordie's leash to his collar. The morning air is already thick with humidity, promising another scorching Pittsburgh summer day. Gordie tugs impatiently, eager for his morning routine despite the heat.

The crumpled statement from Brian sits on my counter, next to my handwritten notes—what I want to say at today's press conference. Words about mental health, vulnerability, and the pressure cooker of professional sports. Not the sanitized corporate apology Brian crafted.

"Come on, buddy," I murmur to Gordie. "Let's get you situated.”

Outside, the neighborhood is coming alive. Kim waters her flower beds in a caftan, and LeMarcus is shooting hoops, already sweating in the morning heat.

"Morning, Alder!" Kim calls, giving Gordie a wide berth. She's never quite warmed to my peculiar-looking dog. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

I force a smile and wave. "Sure is. "

LeMarcus abandons his basketball to jog over. "Yo, A-Stag. How's it hanging?"

"Low and to the left," I reply automatically, earning an eye roll.

"Man, you have been moping since your roommate bounced," LeMarcus says, dropping into step beside me. "She coming back or what?"

The direct question catches me off guard. "It's complicated."

"Adult relationships usually are," Kim chimes in, proving she's been eavesdropping. "That woman had a glow about her when she was living with you."

I grunt noncommittally, not wanting to discuss Lena with my neighbors. Not today, when I'm hours away from seeing her again at the press conference. I follow Gordie as he circles a tree, looking for the perfect spot.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Brian, predictably:

Remember the script. No improvising.

I stare at the message for a long moment. I’m exhausted, but I know I can’t read the statement Brian drafted. I also can’t continue like this, seeing Lena at work, not kissing her, not pulling her into my arms. She is the one with the unique skills here, and she can’t afford to lose this job.

So, I pull up stats on teams within driving distance of Pittsburgh. Cleveland. Columbus. Hell, Detroit is only five hours away. I start to wonder how quickly Brian could get me traded. I’d have to live away from my twin, from my family. From Lena. But the weekend visits would be worth it.

I am considering texting Brian about setting up a trade. I envision the steps afterward … leaving the team. Leaving the city that’s always been my home. Can I bear it?

For Lena, yes. In a heartbeat.

But would she even want that sacrifice? Would she accept it, knowing what the Fury means to me? I would make that trade if it meant keeping her in my life as a partner. Hockey is what I do, but Lena is becoming who I am.

I lie on the floor next to my dog and ask his opinion on moving. He stares at me like I’m nuts. “Well,” I tell him. “Something’s going to change tomorrow. Not sure what, but I’m at least going to tell the truth.”

My new suit fits perfectly, as expected.

The Stag brothers have kept the same tailor for years—an older Serbian man specializing in fitting enormous athletes.

Even Tucker, who hates dressing up, admits that Gregor's suits make us look "less like hulking monsters, more like James Bond on growth hormones. "

I adjust the jacket, checking my bruised jaw in the mirror. The discoloration has faded to a yellowish purple, still visible but no longer the angry red it was days ago. My knuckles have healed faster—the joys of access to professional medical support.

My phone rings—Brian again as if sensing my wavering commitment to his sanitized statement.

"Morning, sunshine," I answer.

"Tell me you're going to stick to the script." No greeting, just straight to the point. Classic Brian.

"Good morning to you too, Brian. Yes, I slept well, thanks for asking."

"Cut the crap, A-Stag. This is about damage control. Say the words, look contrite, move on. Don’t you want a milk ad like your brother?”

I sink onto the edge of my bed, Gordie immediately jumping up to lay his head in my lap. "What if there's something more important than damage control?"

A long, exasperated sigh comes through the speaker. "There isn't. Not in professional sports. "

"Maybe there should be."

"Save the philosophy for off-season charity galas—oh wait, you punched someone at the last one." Brian's tone sharpens. "Just stick to the script, Alder. Please."

I end the call without promising anything, which will drive him crazy. Good. Let him sweat a little.

My phone buzzes with a text from Tucker:

Don't let Brian neuter you. Say what you need to say. We've got your back.

I smile and type back:

Thanks, Fucker. See you there?

His response is immediate:

Front row. Gun too. Even called Dad and Odin to watch online.

The support of my family steadies me as I finish getting ready. Whatever I decide to say today, I won't be standing alone.

The Fury facility has more media presence than I expected for what should be a routine disciplinary press conference. News vans from all the local stations crowd the parking lot, and a cluster of reporters hover near the entrance like vultures waiting for something to die.

"Quite the turnout," I mutter as I navigate them, ignoring shouted questions.

Once inside, I'm immediately intercepted by Melissa Chen, the team's PR director. Her expression is a familiar mix of professionalism and barely concealed stress .

"There's been a change to the program," she says, walking briskly beside me toward the conference room. "Dr. Sinclair will be presenting a new player safety initiative after your statement."

My step falters. "Lena will be there?"

Melissa gives me a sharp look at the familiarity but continues smoothly. "Dr. Sinclair will speak about a new mouthguard program for the youth hockey camp. You'll speak first about your community service. Then, she'll present her initiative. You'll both take questions afterward."

I nod, trying to process this unexpected development. I'd prepared myself to face the media, to decide whether to read Brian's statement or speak my truth. I hadn't prepared to do it with Lena in the room, watching me.

I catch a glimpse of her through the glass wall of a side conference room. She's seated at a table, surrounded by communication staff, reviewing notes. Her dark hair is pulled back, and she's wearing a black suit that somehow makes her look both professional and achingly beautiful.

As if sensing my gaze, she looks up. Our eyes meet briefly through the glass before we both look away, the moment electric despite its brevity.

"You're in here," Melissa says, opening a door to a smaller room. "We start in twenty minutes. Your agent said he's on his way."

Left alone, I pace the small space, alternating between reviewing Brian's script and my notes. The words swim before my eyes, my thoughts repeatedly drifting to Lena. Will she stay for my statement? Will she listen to what I have to say? Will it matter to her?

The door opens, and Gunnar and Tucker enter, both in suits that suggest they've come straight from a meeting with their financial advisor.

"You look like you're about to skate into Game 7 without a cup," Tucker says by way of greeting .

Gunnar studies my expression with more seriousness. "Whatever you're planning, just make sure you're ready for the consequences."

I stop pacing, looking between my brothers. "What if the consequences are worth it?"

They exchange a glance that speaks volumes about their familiarity with my stubborn streaks.

"Then you'll have no regrets," Gunnar says simply.

The door bursts open again, revealing Brian in a state of barely contained panic. "Five minutes. Stick to the script, A-Stag. I'm begging you."

I fold my notes and tuck them inside my jacket. "I'll say what needs to be said."

Brian looks to my brothers for support but finds none. "You're all going to be the death of me," he mutters.

"Drama queen," Tucker coughs into his fist.

Charles Sutton stands at the podium, his practiced owner's smile firmly in place as he addresses the assembled media.

"...commitment to the highest standards of conduct from every member of our organization," he's saying as I tune back in. "The Pittsburgh Fury believes in accountability, which is why Alder Stag has agreed to apologize for his actions and commit to community service with our youth hockey program."

I'm seated at a long table to the side of the podium, acutely aware of Lena, who is several seats away. She hasn't looked at me since we entered the room, her attention fixed on Sutton or her notes.

"Now, I'll turn the microphone over to Alder Stag." Sutton gestures toward me, his expression making it clear this is my one chance at redemption.

As I approach the podium, the weight of multiple expectations pressing down on me: Brian's desperate face in the corner, my brothers' supportive presence in the front row, Sutton's stern vigilance, and Lena, whose expression I can feel but don't dare look at directly.

I pull out Brian's statement and place it on the podium. The words stare back at me, hollow and impersonal. I deeply regret my actions at the Black and Gold Charity Gala. My behavior fell short of the standards expected of a Pittsburgh Fury player...

I look up at the assembled media, cameras trained on my face and recorders capturing every word. Then, I set the paper aside.

"I was supposed to read you an apology that someone else wrote," I begin. "About regrettable actions and commitment to sportsmanship. But that wouldn't be honest, and you deserve honesty."

A murmur ripples through the room. I see Brian cover his face with his hands in my peripheral vision.

"Yes, I hit Adam Lawson at the charity gala. No, it wasn't professional or appropriate. I take full responsibility for that action and accept the consequences."