(Noah POV)

The press conference should have been forgettable.

Most of them were.

Noah had spent nearly a decade sitting beneath bright lights and answering variations of the same ten questions. How was the team feeling? What were the expectations for the season? Did he feel pressure as captain? What did he think about the latest trade rumor? By now, he could answer them in his sleep. Smile at the right moments. Say something polite. Give the media enough to work with without revealing anything real. It was a routine he'd perfected years ago.

So he shouldn't have been thinking about it anymore.

Yet as he walked down the corridor toward the locker room, the only thing replaying in his head wasn't the dozens of questions he'd answered. It was one question from one reporter.

Do you think your popularity has created opportunities other players deserved more?

The memory made his jaw tighten.

Not because the question had offended him.

Because it had hit too close to the truth.

The locker room was already half full when he arrived. Players moved around him, peeling off equipment and arguing about practice schedules while music played softly from a speaker in the corner. It was familiar noise, the kind that usually helped him switch off his brain. Today it didn't. Even as he sat down and untied his skates, he found himself remembering the look on Maya Kapoor's face when she'd asked the question.

She hadn't looked nervous.

She hadn't looked intimidated.

Most reporters did.

Not her.

She had looked annoyed.

As if she'd already decided exactly who he was and didn't particularly like him.

The thought should have irritated him.

Instead, it was strangely interesting.

"You're thinking again."

Noah didn't need to look up to know who had spoken. Liam Foster dropped onto the bench beside him, tossing a water bottle in Noah's direction before leaning back against the lockers.

"That's usually how brains work."

Liam ignored the comment. "You've had that look since the press conference."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're pretending something doesn't bother you."

Noah unscrewed the water bottle and took a drink. "Nothing's bothering me."

"Right."

The single word carried enough sarcasm to fill the entire room.

Liam had known him too long.

That was the problem.

Teammates came and went over the years, but Liam had been there through almost everything. Championships. Injuries. Losing seasons. Winning seasons. Family problems. Career milestones. He could usually tell what Noah was thinking before Noah said a word.

Which was deeply annoying.

"You know she's right."

Noah glanced over.

"About what?"

"The question."

The answer came too quickly.

Of course Liam meant that question.

Noah looked away, focusing on retaping his stick.

For a moment neither man spoke.

The truth was that he'd asked himself the same thing before.

Not once.

Hundreds of times.

There were players in the league every bit as talented as he was. Players who worked just as hard. Players who sacrificed just as much. Yet somehow his face ended up on billboards while theirs didn't. His name sold jerseys. His interviews generated headlines. Companies wanted him in advertisements.

Noah had never figured out exactly why.

And if he was being honest, the attention made him uncomfortable more often than not.

People assumed he loved being famous.

They were wrong.

Fame wasn't freedom.

It was responsibility.

Expectation.

Pressure.

The constant awareness that millions of strangers believed they knew you.

"You're doing it again," Liam said.

"What?"

"Thinking."

Noah threw a roll of tape at him.

Liam caught it easily and laughed.

For a moment, the tension eased.

Only for a moment.

Because as Noah stood and headed toward the showers, another thought pushed its way into his mind.

Maya Kapoor hadn't asked that question for attention.

He'd met reporters who chased controversy before. They were easy to spot. They asked questions designed to provoke reactions and generate clicks.

She wasn't one of them.

The disturbing part was that she'd looked genuinely curious.

As though she actually wanted to know the answer.

And people who genuinely wanted answers were far more dangerous than people looking for headlines.

By the time Noah left the arena that evening, Toronto's skyline was glowing beneath the fading light of sunset. Traffic crawled through downtown streets while pedestrians hurried home from work, bundled against the cold. Normally, the drive helped clear his head.

Tonight it didn't.

His thoughts kept circling back to the same dark-haired reporter.

Not because he wanted them to.

Because every instinct he had was warning him that Maya Kapoor wasn't going to be like the others.

Most reporters eventually got bored.

Most accepted the version of him he allowed the public to see.

Most moved on.

For some reason, Noah didn't think Maya Kapoor would.

And for the first time in a very long time, that made him uneasy.

The next morning began the way most of Noah's mornings did—with ice, silence, and routine.

By six-thirty, he was already at the training facility. The arena was empty except for a few members of the maintenance staff preparing for the day. Fresh ice stretched across the rink like glass, untouched and gleaming beneath the bright overhead lights. Noah preferred these hours before sunrise, when nobody expected interviews, photographs, sponsorship appearances, or leadership speeches. Out here, before the city woke up, hockey still felt simple.

For nearly an hour, he skated alone.

The repetition usually helped clear his mind. Push. Turn. Accelerate. Stop. Repeat. Every movement had been practiced thousands of times, ingrained so deeply into his body that he no longer needed to think about it. Hockey had always been the one place where everything made sense. There were rules. Structure. Certainty. The ice didn't care about public opinion. It didn't care about headlines or media narratives. It only cared whether you were good enough.

Lately, however, even the ice wasn't providing the escape it once had.

As Noah pushed into a sharp turn near the boards, a familiar pain flared through his right hip. The sensation was brief but sharp enough to make him grimace. He immediately straightened and continued skating as though nothing had happened, instinctively checking the empty stands despite knowing nobody was there to notice. The discomfort had become a constant companion over the past several months. Some days it barely registered. Other days it felt like a warning he wasn't ready to hear.

He refused to think about it.

Thinking led to questions.

Questions led to possibilities.

And Noah wasn't interested in either.

The sound of skates cutting across the ice broke through his thoughts. A few seconds later Liam Foster appeared, carrying a coffee and looking irritatingly awake for someone who had gone to bed after midnight.

"You're here early," Liam said, stopping beside him.

Noah snorted. "You're here early."

"Yeah, but I'm not the one voluntarily doing extra drills before sunrise."

Liam took a sip of coffee before studying him carefully. The look immediately made Noah suspicious. Liam had spent seven years learning how to read him, which unfortunately meant he was good at it.

"What?" Noah asked.

"Nothing."

"Liam."

His friend smiled. "I'm just trying to figure out whether you're still thinking about the reporter."

Noah groaned immediately. "We're not doing this."

"The fact that you know exactly which reporter I'm talking about isn't helping your case."

Noah pushed off and skated toward center ice, hoping movement would end the conversation. It didn't. Liam followed without any intention of letting the topic die.

"She got under your skin."

"She asked a question."

"A question you've apparently been thinking about for twenty-four hours."

Noah didn't answer.

That alone was answer enough.

The irritating part was that Liam wasn't entirely wrong. He had thought about Maya Kapoor more than once since the press conference. Not because he liked her. Not because he found her interesting. Because she was unusual.

Most reporters approached him with some version of the same agenda. They wanted a quote. A headline. A story. Maya Kapoor had looked at him like she wanted the truth.

And the truth was significantly more dangerous.

By the time the rest of the team arrived, Noah had successfully pushed the thought aside. Practice started shortly afterward, filling the arena with the familiar chaos of professional hockey. Coaches shouted instructions while pucks ricocheted across the ice. Players raced through drills, fighting for position and trying to impress a coaching staff that never seemed fully satisfied. Normally, Noah enjoyed the intensity. Today he found himself distracted.

The distraction became significantly worse after practice.

The team had barely finished their post-skate meeting when a representative from media relations stepped into the room carrying a stack of folders. Every player immediately looked annoyed. Nothing good ever came from media relations carrying paperwork.

"Quick announcement," the representative said.

A collective groan followed.

Ignoring them, she continued. "As most of you know, the documentary partnership officially begins next week. Alongside the production crew, the organization has approved an embedded journalist who will be covering the team throughout the season."

Noah stopped paying attention.

Until he heard the name.

"Maya Kapoor."

For a second, the room seemed unusually quiet.

Not because anyone else cared.

Because Noah did.

Beside him, Liam turned so slowly it was almost theatrical. The grin spreading across his face suggested he was enjoying this far too much.

"No," Noah said immediately.

Liam looked delighted. "I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I absolutely was."

Noah leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

An entire season.

The thought settled heavily in his chest.

Most reporters disappeared after a few interviews. A few articles. A couple of press conferences. Then they moved on to the next story. Maya wasn't moving on. She would be around during practices. Team events. Road trips. Media sessions. She would have access.

And access created opportunities.

The realization followed him for the rest of the afternoon.

By the time he returned to the rink later that day, he had almost convinced himself it wouldn't matter. Maya Kapoor was just another journalist. He would keep his distance. She would write her stories. The season would continue.

Simple.

Then he stepped onto the ice and saw her standing behind the glass.

A credential hung around her neck.

A notebook rested in her hand.

And she was watching everything.

Not casually.

Not like someone looking for a quote.

Like someone trying to solve a puzzle.

For reasons Noah couldn't explain, a feeling settled low in his stomach.

Not fear.

Not quite.

Something closer to concern.

Because people who paid attention eventually noticed things.

And Noah Hayes had spent years making sure nobody noticed too much.

Noah spent the first ten minutes pretending he wasn't watching her.

Unfortunately, he had never been particularly good at lying to himself.

From the opposite side of the rink, Maya Kapoor stood behind the glass with a notebook tucked beneath one arm and a credential hanging around her neck. She wasn't doing anything unusual. Reporters attended practices all the time. Some watched drills. Some chatted with staff members. Some spent more time on their phones than paying attention to the game itself.

Maya wasn't like that.

She watched.

Really watched.

The difference was subtle, but Noah noticed it immediately.

Most reporters focused on the obvious things—the goals, the mistakes, the moments likely to make headlines. Maya's gaze moved constantly. She observed coaches talking to players. Trainers moving equipment. Interactions on the bench. The details everyone else ignored.

The details that often told the real story.

And that was precisely the problem.

"You're staring."

Noah nearly rolled his eyes.

Liam appeared beside him carrying a water bottle and an expression that suggested he was enjoying himself far too much.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"No."

Liam looked toward the glass.

Then back at Noah.

Then smiled.

"That's getting embarrassing."

Noah skated away before he could continue.

Unfortunately, Liam's laughter followed him across the ice.

The rest of practice passed quickly. Coaches ran the team through systems drills while assistant coaches barked instructions from the bench. Noah threw himself into every exercise with more force than necessary, hoping physical exhaustion would drown out his increasingly irritating awareness of Maya's presence.

It didn't.

Every time he looked up, she was somewhere nearby.

Watching.

Writing.

Observing.

The realization shouldn't have bothered him.

Yet somehow it did.

Because Noah had spent years carefully controlling what the public saw.

Not out of vanity.

Out of necessity.

The less people knew, the safer everyone was.

That lesson had been drilled into him long before he became captain.

Long before sponsorships and endorsements.

Long before millions of people started recognizing him on the street.

His father had learned it the hard way.

And Noah had never forgotten.

By the time practice ended, his patience was wearing thin.

Players headed toward the locker room while staff began preparing for the afternoon. Noah lingered near the bench, removing his gloves slowly as he watched reporters gather around the media area.

Maya remained where she was.

Still writing.

Still paying attention.

Still making him curious despite his better judgment.

That curiosity annoyed him more than anything else.

Because curiosity led to mistakes.

Noah knew that better than most.

Without entirely understanding why, he found himself walking toward the glass.

The closer he got, the more details he noticed. Dark hair pulled loosely over one shoulder. A navy coat. A notebook already filled with pages of handwriting. She looked focused enough not to notice him approaching.

Until she did.

The moment their eyes met, her expression shifted.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Like she'd expected him eventually.

"Hayes."

Her voice was calm.

Professional.

No microphones.

No cameras.

No audience.

For the first time, it was just the two of them.

"Kapoor."

For a few seconds neither spoke.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable.

It was cautious.

Like two opponents sizing each other up before a game.

Maya finally closed her notebook.

"You've been avoiding interviews."

Noah almost laughed.

Straight to the point.

Of course.

"I've done six this week."

"You canceled two."

He raised an eyebrow.

"You keeping track?"

"I'm a journalist."

"That sounds unhealthy."

To his surprise, the corner of her mouth twitched slightly.

Not quite a smile.

Close.

The expression disappeared almost immediately.

"I heard your documentary starts next week."

Noah nodded.

"Apparently."

"You sound excited."

"I'm thrilled."

The sarcasm earned an actual laugh this time.

The sound caught him off guard.

It was warmer than he expected.

For a brief moment, neither seemed prepared for the sudden ease that settled between them.

Then Maya recovered first.

"Can I ask you something?"

Noah immediately became suspicious.

"That depends."

"On?"

"The question."

She considered him for a moment.

"No media training answer."

"There it is."

"What?"

"The trap."

Maya sighed.

"You really think every conversation is an interrogation."

"No."

"Then why are you acting like this?"

The question landed harder than she probably intended.

Because Noah didn't have a good answer.

At least not one he wanted to share.

The truth was that experience had taught him caution. Experience had taught him that openness came with consequences. Experience had taught him that the wrong story could change a life.

But explaining that to Maya Kapoor felt impossible.

Instead, he shrugged.

"Occupational hazard."

For a second she studied him.

Not his face.

Him.

As though trying to look beneath the answer.

Noah suddenly understood why she was good at her job.

She didn't stop at the first explanation.

She kept looking.

The realization sent an uncomfortable feeling through his chest.

Because people who kept looking eventually found things.

And Noah had secrets he intended to keep.

A voice called Maya's name from across the arena.

Another reporter waving her over.

The moment broke instantly.

Maya glanced toward the sound before looking back at him.

"See you around, Hayes."

The words were casual.

Yet something about them felt strangely significant.

Because for the first time since meeting her, Noah realized she wasn't going anywhere.

Not tomorrow.

Not next week.

Not next month.

An entire season.

The thought should have been irritating.

Instead, as Maya walked away, Noah found himself watching her disappear through the crowd.

And for reasons he couldn't explain, he was already looking forward to their next argument.

That realization was a problem.

A very serious problem.