Damiano barely reacted when Alexandre cracked his little joke. He just exhaled sharply, a dry, unimpressed sound, and shifted in his seat. He wasn’t surprised the room stayed silent. These were the kind of people who didn’t laugh unless they were the ones with the upper hand. The kind who saw humor as a distraction from whatever grim agenda they had lined up.

The general manager, Mr. Moretti, leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the table. “You’d do well to take this seriously, Mr. Avery.” His voice was slow, deliberate. The kind of tone people used when they were used to being listened to.

Across from him, the head coach, a heavyset man with a permanently furrowed brow, sighed and shook his head. “We’ll cut the bullshit,” he grunted. “There’s no point in us pretending we didn’t know this trade was gonna be a problem.” His eyes flicked between them. “We brought you here to see if this is a problem—or if it’s one that needs to be solved before it festers.”

The room was quiet for a beat. Damiano crossed his arms.

“We’re fine,” he muttered, knowing full well that wasn’t an answer they’d accept but not giving a shit.

Moretti didn’t look convinced. His gaze shifted to Alexandre, like he was waiting for him to contradict it. The government official—one of the higher-ups who oversaw the team’s operations—cleared his throat. “Fine is not exactly what we’d call breaking into a fistfight on the first day of camp.” His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his voice—something calculating.

Damiano didn’t flinch. “It’s hockey,” he said flatly. “Shit happens.”

The head coach let out a dry chuckle. “Sure. And I don’t care if you two beat the hell out of each other in practice—as long as it doesn’t affect the game. But what we do care about is whether we’ve got two guys who are supposed to be leading this team and can’t stand being on the same sheet of ice.” He turned to Alexandre. “That a problem?”

There was a pause. Damiano could feel Moretti watching them both like a hawk, trying to read between the lines.

Then the government official spoke again, his voice smooth and weighty. “Because if it is a problem,” he said, “we’ll fix it.”

There was something in the way he said it that made Damiano’s skin crawl. The way his tone was just a little too casual, like he was talking about disposing of an inconvenience rather than working through it.

Damiano clenched his jaw. His gut told him to push back, to tell them to fuck off, but he knew how this worked. The league in New Rome wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t just about winning games. It was about control. And when the people in charge decided someone wasn’t worth the trouble, they didn’t hesitate to get rid of them.

He exhaled through his nose. “It’s not a problem.”

Moretti raised a brow. “Prove it.”

Damiano held his gaze, then finally, with effort, turned his head slightly toward Alexandre. He didn’t look at him directly—just enough for it to be acknowledged.

“We’ll handle it,” he said, his voice steady.

It wasn’t exactly a promise. It wasn’t exactly a lie, either.

It was enough.

For now.

Moretti leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing them both like a man assessing a losing bet. His fingers drummed against the table in a slow, measured rhythm. The government official remained still, watching with the kind of unreadable expression that made Damiano’s skin crawl. The head coach, at least, looked satisfied enough—for now.

"Good," Moretti finally said. "Because here's the deal, boys. We didn’t just bring Alexandre in to skate a few shifts and look pretty for the press. We expect results. We expect a team that works." His gaze flickered to Damiano. "And as captain, it’s your responsibility to make sure that happens."

Damiano's jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue. He knew better than to push back in a meeting like this. The real consequences wouldn’t come from a bad scrimmage or a few punches thrown at practice. The front office didn’t care about that. What they cared about was control. The moment they thought he couldn’t handle his role—couldn’t keep the team in line, couldn’t perform on the ice, couldn’t sell the product—he’d be just as expendable as anyone else.

The government official, who had been silent for most of the exchange, finally spoke. "This city isn’t forgiving to those who fall out of favor," he said smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks. "We’ve given both of you a unique opportunity. Don’t squander it."

The room went still. The weight of the words was impossible to ignore.

Damiano had heard the rumors before. Players who left New Rome and were never heard from again. Players who had outlived their usefulness and disappeared overnight. Maybe it was just the paranoia of a league built on corruption, or maybe it was the ugly truth everyone ignored. Either way, it was a warning.

He forced his posture to stay relaxed, despite the tension curling in his muscles. "Understood," he said.

The meeting didn’t last much longer after that. A few more questions—mostly directed at Alexandre, since the front office was still feeling out what kind of player they’d actually acquired—and then they were dismissed.

Damiano didn’t say a word as they left the office. His strides were long and deliberate, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his suit pants. The air in the hallway felt colder than before.

The city was like that. This team was like that.

It got into your bones.

As they neared the exit, the low hum of conversation from deeper in the building drifted through the corridors. Security guards stood at their usual posts, impassive and armed, as always. The world outside these walls was just as dangerous as the one within them.

Damiano finally stopped at the doorway, glancing back just long enough to see Alexandre beside him. He didn’t look at him for long. He didn’t need to. He just exhaled sharply and pushed the door open, stepping out into the night.

New Rome stretched out before them, sprawling and unwelcoming. The neon glow of signs flickered against the wet pavement. Voices echoed in the streets, some drunk, some desperate, some angry.

Damiano rolled his shoulders and started walking toward the team’s housing. He didn’t check if Alexandre was following.

He already knew he was.

Clingy bastard.