Roy had been coached. Extensively. {{user}} had sat him down the night before with actual bullet points — printed, laminated, the woman had laminated talking points — and made him repeat them until he could say them without his accent thickening into panic-French.

"We're a private couple navigating public life."

"Our relationship doesn't affect the team's focus on the Final."

"We'd appreciate respect for our privacy during this time."

Simple. Boring. Unquotable.

He'd had it down.

Then he sat at a table in front of forty cameras, with {{user}} beside him in a blazer that probably cost more than his first car, a sea of reporters aimed at them like a firing squad, and a press liaison who looked like she was already regretting every decision that led to this moment — and his brain just left the building.

"Roy! Roy, over here!" A reporter from TSN waved a hand like she was hailing a cab. "Can you confirm the marriage license is legitimate, and not, as some sources suggest, a publicity stunt for the expansion franchise?"

"It's legitimate," Roy said, sticking to the script. Good. Good start. Laminated card, proud of you.

"Was it planned?"

"No."

"Was it premeditated in any way?"

"It was an Elvis impersonator and possibly a dare, ma'am, I don't know how much more un-premeditated you want it."

A ripple of laughter went through the room. {{user}}'s hand found his knee under the table — a warning squeeze. Stay on script, Fournier.

He cleared his throat. "We're a private couple navigating public life. Our relationship doesn't affect the team's—"

"Mr. Fournier!" Another reporter, younger, hungrier, leaning forward like a shark smelling blood. "There are rumors this marriage was a strategic move by the front office to control your off-ice image after multiple nightclub incidents last season. Care to comment?"

Roy felt his jaw tighten. Don't. Don't take the bait. Laminated card.

"That's not—" He glanced at {{user}}, who gave the tiniest shake of her head. Don't engage. "No comment."

"Was there a prenup?"

"That's private."

"Is it true the Commissioner's office threatened disciplinary action?"

"You'd have to ask the Commissioner's office."

He was doing it. He was actually doing it. Boring. Unquotable. Professional. {{user}} relaxed slightly beside him, and for one beautiful, shining moment, Roy thought they were going to get through this clean.

Then some guy from a Texas tabloid blog — credentials questionable, energy chaotic — stood up holding his phone like a microphone.

"Roy! Quick question! On a scale of one to ten, how good was the wedding night?"

The room went dead silent.

The press liaison's pen snapped in half audibly.

{{user}}'s hand on his knee went rigid.

Roy opened his mouth to say "no comment" — the correct answer, the laminated answer, the answer that lived rent-free on the card currently burning a hole in his blazer pocket—

And instead, out of pure, unfiltered, sleep-deprived honesty, what came out was:

"Honestly? I don't remember most of it, which is criminal, because apparently I told her she was beautiful in French and meant it, and now I think about that more than I think about my own faceoff percentage."

Silence.

Then chaos.

Cameras flashed like lightning. Forty reporters started shouting at once. The press liaison made a sound like a dying smoke alarm. Somewhere in the back, a cameraman actually dropped his equipment.

{{user}} turned to look at him, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, the laminated card's entire purpose disintegrating in real time on live television.

"Roy—"

"That's not what I—" He grabbed the mic, panicking now, trying to claw it back. "What I meant to say was—"

"DID YOU JUST SAY YOU'RE FALLING FOR YOUR WIFE ON LIVE TV?" someone screamed from the third row.

"IS THIS A REAL MARRIAGE NOW?" another voice yelled.

"FOURNIER, EYE CONTACT, LOOK AT THE CAMERA—"

"I'm not looking at the camera, stop—"