Lines You Don't Cross
1154 Words
The interview ends, but the tension doesn’t.
It lingers.
Clings.
Like the cold air inside the arena has found its way under my skin and decided to stay there.
“Alina, that was bold.”
I barely hear my colleague as I lower my microphone, my gaze still locked on the retreating figure of Ethan Volkov disappearing toward the locker rooms. The crowd is still buzzing, replaying his answer, twisting it into headlines and speculation.
Walking away.
They think he meant hockey.
They’re wrong.
And the fact that I know that feel that more than anyone here is exactly why I should walk in the opposite direction.
Instead, my feet move forward.
Of course they do.
“Alina?” my colleague calls again. “Where are you going?”
I don’t answer.
Because if I do, I might stop.
And I can’t stop.
Not now.
Not when something in his voice sounded too real. Too unfinished. Like a conversation that never actually ended… just froze in place, waiting for someone reckless enough to thaw it.
The hallway leading to the locker rooms is quieter, dimmer. The roar of the crowd fades behind me, replaced by the echo of my own footsteps and the distant clang of equipment being moved around.
This is a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
Which is exactly why I keep going.
I reach the door just as it swings open.
And suddenly
He’s there.
Closer than expected.
Too close.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Up close, Ethan looks different. The cameras don’t capture this version of him. The slight tension in his jaw. The way his breathing is still uneven from the game. The faint scar just above his eyebrow that I don’t remember being there before.
Time didn’t just pass.
It happened to him.
“Still chasing answers you don’t deserve?” he says quietly.
The words land like a slap.
There it is.
The distance. The bitterness. The version of him that remembers exactly how things ended.
I straighten, forcing my expression into something calm. Professional.
“Still avoiding questions you don’t want to answer?” I shoot back.
His eyes flicker.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Like this this is familiar territory. Us circling each other, words sharp enough to cut but never quite hitting where it matters most.
“Careful,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “You’re not off the record right now.”
“I’m always on the record,” I reply, even though my pulse is starting to misbehave again.
A corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
Not a smile.
Something more dangerous.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?”
The air between us tightens.
Five years of unsaid things pressing in from all sides.
I swallow, refusing to look away. “You said you regret walking away.”
“I did.”
“So explain it.”
His gaze darkens, something unreadable flashing through his expression before it disappears just as quickly.
“That wasn’t an invitation,” he says.
“No,” I agree softly. “It was an answer. I’m just asking the question that comes with it.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to shut me down. Walk past me like I don’t exist.
Like I’m just another part of his past he doesn’t have time for.
Instead, he leans in slightly, just enough that his voice drops, just enough that no one else can hear him.
“You really want to do this here?” he asks.
My breath catches.
No.
Yes.
“I want the truth,” I say.
A beat of silence.
Then
“You already told it once,” he says.
The words hit harder than anything else he’s said so far.
Because I know exactly what he’s talking about.
The article.
The one that changed everything.
“I told the truth,” I say, my voice quieter now.
“You told a truth,” he corrects. “Not mine.”
The hallway feels smaller suddenly.
Like the walls are closing in.
“Then tell me your version,” I push.
His jaw tightens.
For a second, something almost like hesitation flickers in his eyes.
And then
A voice cuts through the tension.
“Ethan, coach wants you”
A woman steps into the hallway, her words faltering the second she notices me.
She’s beautiful. Effortlessly so. Confident in the way she stands, like she belongs here. Like she belongs next to him.
Her gaze moves between us, sharp and assessing.
Something twists in my chest before I can stop it.
“Am I interrupting?” she asks, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer.
Ethan doesn’t look away from me.
“No,” he says slowly. “We were just finishing up.”
We.
The word shouldn’t mean anything.
It does.
I step back slightly, creating space that suddenly feels very necessary. “I’ll see you at the next interview,” I say, forcing my voice back into something neutral.
Professional.
Distant.
Like I don’t care.
Like this doesn’t feel like reopening a wound that never healed properly.
I turn to leave.
“Alina.”
I freeze.
His voice isn’t loud.
But it stops me anyway.
I glance back over my shoulder.
His expression has shifted again. The edge is still there, but underneath it
Something else.
Something heavier.
“You want the truth?” he says.
I nod slowly.
He holds my gaze for a long second.
Then
“The night you published that article…” he begins, his voice steady but his eyes anything but, “I didn’t leave because of hockey.”
My stomach drops.
“What do you mean?”
A pause.
Just long enough to make my pulse spike.
“I left,” he says, “because staying would’ve destroyed you.”
The words don’t make sense.
They don’t fit.
Because that’s not how I remember it.
“That’s not”
“You think you know what happened,” he cuts in quietly. “You don’t.”
The world tilts slightly.
Because for the first time since I walked into this arena
I’m not sure of my own version of the story.
“Ethan,” the woman says again, softer this time, her hand brushing lightly against his arm.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t look at her.
Still watching me.
Like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
Like I always was.
“Next time you ask a question,” he says, his voice low, deliberate, “make sure you’re ready for the answer.”
And then he turns away.
Just like that.
Leaving me standing there with a thousand thoughts crashing into each other… and one realization settling cold and heavy in my chest.
If he’s telling the truth
Then the story I built my career on…
The story that broke us
Might be a lie.
- Writer
