Chapter 3: Same Room.
900 Words
Elias's pov.
The league calls it a “joint media initiative.”
What it really means is: They want a spectacle.
Rival captains. Same room. Same cameras. Same narrative.
I knew about it twenty-four hours in advance.
Didn’t ask questions.
Didn’t object.
Didn’t react.
Because reacting would mean it matters.
And it doesn’t.
That’s what I tell myself as I walk into the conference hall.
It’s too bright.
That’s the first thing I notice.
Lights positioned too deliberately. Chairs arranged too precisely. Backdrop printed with league sponsors and carefully curated slogans about unity, sportsmanship, legacy.
Media crews are already setting up, voices low but alert, like something interesting might happen if they wait long enough.
They’re right.
It always does when he’s involved.
I step inside fully.
And I feel it immediately.
That shift.
Like the air recognizes something before I do.
I don’t look for him.
That would be a mistake.
“There he is.”
Too late.
My gaze lifts on instinct.
And finds him.
Kieran Ashford stands near the front, already in position like he got here early just to claim it.
Dark suit this time. No gear. No ice between us. No helmets, no gloves, no excuses.
He looks… different.
“Captain Vane,” someone calls.
I nod once and move forward, each step measured, ignoring the way the room subtly shifts around the fact that we are now both in it.
“They’ll seat you next to each other.”
Of course they will.
I glance at the row of chairs set up for the press.
Two in the center.
A trap disguised as protocol.
“Any issues?” the coordinator asks.
“No,” we say in unison.
We don’t look at each other as we sit side by side.
Closer than the ice ever allowed.
I rest my hands on my thighs, posture straight, gaze forward.
Cameras click immediately.
They’ve been waiting for this.
Rival captains.
Contained and forced into civility.
“Keep it professional,” someone mutters behind the cameras.
I almost smile.
Because that’s the one thing neither of us has ever been good at when it comes to each other.
“Let’s begin.”
Microphones adjust.
Lights intensify.
Questions fire quickly.
“Captain Vane, how would you describe the current dynamic between your team and the Royals?"
“Competitive,” I neutrally say.
“Captain Ashford?”
A pause.
“The same,” he calmly replies.
But there’s something underneath it.
Something not said.
Something that doesn’t fit neatly into “competitive.”
Next question.
“Your last match ended in a draw. Frustrating for both sides?”
“Yes,” I say.
“No,” he says.
At the same time.
Again.
This time, I do turn my head.
Just slightly.
Enough to catch the edge of his expression.
And he’s already looking at me.
Not surprised.
Not amused.
Just… sternly staring.
“Clarify,” the reporter presses.
I look forward again.
“Frustrating,” I repeat.
He leans back slightly in his chair.
“Unfinished,” he says.
The word lands differently.
Not wrong.
Not right.
Just too accurate.
The room shifts again.
They feel it.
Even if they don’t understand it.
More questions.
More controlled answers.
More attempts to package something that refuses to be simplified.
And then...
“Do you respect each other?”
The room stills.
That’s the question.
The one they’ve been building toward.
I answer first.
“Yes.”
Simple.
Immediate.
True enough to pass.
“Kieran?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
I feel the pause before I hear it.
That fraction of a second where something real almost surfaces.
Then he says...
“I understand him.”
Not respect.
Not dislike.
Not rivalry.
Understanding.
That’s worse.
Because it implies something deeper.
Something closer.
Something neither of us has agreed to admit.
I keep my expression neutral.
But something in my chest tightens.
Again.
The conference ends too soon.
Or maybe not soon enough.
Chairs scrape.
Cameras power down.
Voices rise again.
Normal returns.
Except it doesn’t.
Not completely.
Because we’re still sitting there for half a second longer than necessary.
Neither of us rushing to stand.
Neither of us breaking the moment first.
Then I stand.
He stands a second later.
Timing off.
For once.
People move between us.
Media.
Staff.
Noise.
Distance reintroduced artificially.
But it doesn’t settle anything.
It just delays it.
I turn to leave.
And that’s when it happens.
Not dramatic.
Not obvious.
Barely noticeable.
His hand brushes mine.
Accidental.
It has to be.
There’s no reason for it not to be.
But neither of us moves immediately.
Just a fraction too long.
Just enough to register.
Skin through nothing but air and awareness.
Then it’s gone.
Like it never happened.
I walk out of the conference hall without looking back.
But something is wrong.
Not visibly.
Not externally.
Internally.
Because now there’s a new problem.
And it’s not the rivalry.
Not the teams.
Not the season.
It’s this...
Whatever this is.
This awareness that doesn’t switch off.
This pull that doesn’t make sense.
This moment that shouldn’t matter but does.
More than it should.
More than I want it to.
And the worst part?
I don’t think it’s one-sided.
I think he feels it too.
And neither of us is doing anything to stop it.
Hating him no longer comes as easily as it once did.
- Writer
