A girl named Stacy is brushing powder under my eyes. I knew a live interview wouldn't be a cakewalk, but seriously, make-up? Bad enough I'm about to bare my soul in front of a few million TV viewers and internet streamers. Shoot me.

Alan strides into the room, clapping his hands together. "Ready?"

"Uh-huh." What's the alternative? I promised Jolet Montai I'd do her stupid interview. And if there's even the slightest chance Reece will see it, I'll make it happen.

The PR guy leads me to a sound stage. A plush couch and matching chair sit facing three dozen cameras. Just beyond is about a million dollars' worth of broadcasting junk.

Isn't that cute.

The stitches in my brow, just beside the piercing, have another few days before they're ready to come out. Stacy styled, teased, and sprayed my overgrown hair to cover it. She even hides the vague bruising – I look like a new man. Not the train wreck Claude dredged from the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

I'm wearing my Cyclones jersey over dark jeans and scuffed boots. Alan's idea – shows comradery with the team, makes me seem confident. The exact opposite of how I feel. That's probably a first for me.

"This is you," Alan gestures to the stool on the left, and I take a seat. "Remember, look at Jolet or at the camera. This one." He points at a camera just a few feet to the right of where my interviewer will sit.

I don't normally mind attention from the media. I'm well known for flirting with the camera and photographer. Between press conferences and community events, I'm no stranger to looking into a lens and smiling. Cocky hockey player with an outstanding score record and phenomenal season.

Today, I feel like a fraud and a failure. I'm bringing attention to a horrible truth. Telling a story that will affect countless women nationwide.

"Bastien!" Jolet Montai appears, dressed in a killer sheath dress and nude pumps that showcase her smooth, dark skin. She's the epitome of feminine power. "Good to see you." She shakes my hand and sits. "How are you feeling? Ready to answer a few questions?"

"Sure," I lie, stretching my arms out on the couch. "I read the list."

"Anything off limits?"

"No." Alan warned me about the list of supposed questions – guidelines, but she doesn't have to follow it. The contract I signed permits me the grace of silence, but only if Alan or I flag the segments first. Otherwise, anything is fair game.

Worse, the interview is live, so I can't exactly say, "Fuck off," and let the techys edit out the segment.

"Fantastic!" She flashes a perfect smile. "Shall we begin?"

A producer flits around, telling us about time and camera angles. I try and pay attention, but I'm wondering what Reece is doing now, whether she'll see this interview tonight. I picture her smile, the piercing in her nose glittering when she laughs. I hope wherever she is, she's happy.

"Rolling," the producer says, and gestures to Jolet.

My interviewer pivots toward the camera. "I'm here tonight with local sensation Bastien Killfeather, forward and co-captain of the Cincinnati Cyclones..."

Her introduction continues, the kitschy crap you can find on a Google search. Still, my face freezes into an uncomfortable mask, the self-assured grin and blasé set of my shoulders a thin shield. I feel like such a tool, talking about my career when the real issue has yet to be broached.

At least she starts off with featherweight questions. "You come from a large family, right?"

"Yes." I say easily. "Six kids, parents still married."

"Any sisters?"

"Three of them."

She takes me through my youth, growing up mixed, starting to play hockey. I never really felt different from my peers because I wasn't taught to think that way. I'm human, first and foremost. Acceptance and understanding are as much a part of me as my hazel eyes and dark hair.

There are jokes about my early years in the NHL. I was eighteen years old and thought I was so smooth, being drafted practically out of high school. Pictures flash on the television monitor at our backs: me partying with puck bunnies, my indiscretion getting me knocked between teams and eventually settled on the bubble. Not to mention stories of getting laid in bar bathrooms and hotel suites.

God, I was wild.

"But that all stopped recently," Jolet gives an arch look.

Here we go. I make a nervous chuckle. "Yes, it did."

"Why the sudden change of heart?" Jolet tilts a sympathetic face toward camera number two.

Ugh.

"I met a girl who drew on walls." I smile because I like thinking about those times. Back when it was a simple game of graffiti tag. When I brought color to Reece's world. "I started to draw back."

I also know these questions will be the hardest to answer. Because my chest still aches with the loss. I want to respect Reece's privacy. Keep her out of the torrid gossip as much as possible.

"You've been a couple since then?"

"No." I laugh. "It took a while to convince her I was worth the trouble."

"Tell me about this girl." Thankfully, Jolet is professional enough not to mention Reece by name. "She must be pretty special to make you walk the straight and narrow."

"We started off as less than friends. Then the more I learned, the harder I fell. Except..." I catch myself staring into the darkness off set, trying to collect my thoughts. Turning, I speak to the camera, just like Alan directed. Pour out my heart. "With her, it was never falling. It was – is – like coming home. She's smart, funny, and incredibly talented. Not to mention the strongest person I've ever met."

"You love her," Jolet concludes.

"Yes." I don't hesitate. "I absolutely do."

Then she goes in for the kill. "About this video that recently went viral." She's all wide-eyed eagerness. I can't imagine the pings and ratings she's getting right now. "The man you got into a brawl with—who was he? An ex-lover? Jealous fan? Jilted boyfriend?"

Jolet's stabbing me in a sore spot, but I stay cool. This is my chance to own the narrative, make it about something greater than myself and my pathetic heartbreak. A beat goes by while I consider my options.

Here goes nothing.

"He's part of an epidemic that nobody wants to talk about, much less acknowledge." I start. "Domestic violence happens every day in the U.S., Canada, and Europe. It's a taboo issue in our society, literally shut behind closed doors."

Jolet seems shocked by this plot twist. "You're saying he was her abuser?"

I ignore the question because it's not my story to tell. "Few admit to being a victim, yet over half the homicides each year are because of this backroom killer. Most of those deaths are women." Thank you, Claude, for the last-minute statistics. "I can't think of anything more disgusting than abusing someone you love."

"That is terrible," Jolet concedes, not entirely sure what to do now that I've veered so far off course. She was trying to make this about me, my race, and dating a white girl. I'm not about to let her. "But if it's bad enough, wouldn't the victims report the abuse?"

"No." I swallow the lump in my throat, remembering Reece's darkness. "They think the abuse is their fault. They did something wrong and deserve it. Or for fear of what would happen if they escaped."

Jolet smiles past her irritation at my running roughshod over her segment. "When he punched you first, that was you defending her?"

"Yes. But, in all honestly, she never needed me to defend her." I reply, voice clotted with emotion. "She got her life back all on her own. I just had the privilege of being by her side."

"But you were there," Jolet presses. "You were the one keeping him at bay."

"Like I said, she's strong." I swallow the crack in my voice. "She didn't need me. She never needed me. She's always been perfect."

My interviewer's eyes soften. "So what are you saying? About the video and the circumstances surrounding it."

"I lost my temper," I admit, "took self-defense further than it needed to go. Because of that, I hurt the woman I love. It kills me." Emotion grips my throat and I clear it before continuing. "I don't condone violence to vindicate violence. But I will say this:" I turn and face the camera over Jolet's shoulder. "You give the abuser all the power when you remain silent. Not just the victim, but everyone. If you see something, say something. Sometimes just showing you care is enough."

"And what would you say to the victims of domestic violence who might see this?" Jolet rolls with my soapbox.

I work the tongue ring, consider. "You're not alone and there is help. Nobody deserves to be abused. You can leave. You can do it. It's hard, but possible. And it's worth it."

Jolet remains silent for a while. For a moment, I think she's going to delve deeper, ask probing questions about Reece's past. Instead, she takes a deep breath, dark eyes burning with admiration from her stool.

"Tell me about the community events you've been a part of this year with the Cyclones." She murmurs, deviating entirely from her list of questions. "The photos of the team at the Adopt-a-Thon last year were adorable. Are you an animal lover?"

"Sure am." I smile at this olive branch. "More of a dog-person than a cat-person."

"Oh, Bastien," she taps my shin tauntingly with the toe of her pump. "I don't think we can be friends anymore."

The conversation turns to furry critters, my teammates, and hockey. The easiest things to talk about all day long. The interview no longer seems like a burden.

And it sparks me.

Once this is over, I'll text Henry. Head out tonight if I need to. There's one last thing I want Reece to have, even if we're over. Something to make her smile and ensure she'll never be alone.

I just hope she'll accept.