Page 4 of Puck Me Daddy

“I think that’s enough questions about that,” the handler said, without hesitating.”

"Okay aside from the clubs, uh, everyone has quirks. What do you do? A lucky pair of socks? A favorite playlist?"

Demian's jaw tightened, but there was a flicker of something vulnerable beneath his stoicism. I saw it—a fleeting expression that hinted at the man behind the athlete.

"Sometimes," he said slowly, “it’s about finding your own space. Your own rhythm.”

"That sounds comforting," I replied, my voice softening. I leaned in, desperate to bridge the gap between us. My mind raced with possibilities, imagining the kind of comfort he might offer beyond the confines of this room. “What about personal relationships? Do you find comfort in those?”

"Comfort can be a double-edged sword," he countered, refusing to engage with my question. His expression grewserious. “It makes you weak if you're not careful. You always need to balance comfort with discipline.”

"Comfort can make you strong, too," I quipped back, trying to keep the conversation alive. "It all depends on how you look at it."

His gaze flickered over me, uncertainty mingling with intrigue. In that charged silence, I felt the air thicken, each heartbeat echoing louder than the last. What was he really thinking?

"Maybe," he conceded, his voice barely above a murmur. "But right now, it's just . . . complicated."

"Complication often leads to clarity," I said, my pulse quickening.

"Or chaos," he shot back, his tone firm, yet I sensed the underlying challenge.

"A relationship with the right person can help you find some order in that chaos," I urged, emboldened.

For a brief moment, I thought I saw a crack in his armor, a flicker of interest igniting in his eyes. But just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by that well-worn mask once again.

"Change the subject,” the handler demanded. There was no room for argument in his tone.

"Fine. Why today? Why grant an interview now, after all this time?"

He hesitated, a shadow crossing his features. For an instant, vulnerability flickered in his eyes as he searched for the right words.

"Sometimes," he said quietly, “you realize it’s time to let someone in. Even just a little bit. Even if it pushes you out of your comfort zone.”

I bit my lip as Demian’s gaze settled on me, the weight of his storm-gray eyes sending a shiver down my spine. I tried to focus on my notes, but my fingers betrayed me, doodling tiny flowersin the margins instead of the questions I’d rehearsed. It felt childish, yet somehow freeing in this tense moment.

"Demian," I started, forcing a steady voice, "do you believe in fate?" The question hung in the air, heavy and probing.

He leaned back slightly, assessing me with that cool intensity. "No," he replied, his voice low. “I believe in making your own fate. There was a softness there, a flicker of warmth beneath his stoic exterior. I could sense something deeper hidden behind those walls, but the handler shifted uncomfortably, ready to cut us off.

I hugged my arms around myself, feeling anxious. Why did I feel so small under his scrutiny? I straightened in my seat, trying to project confidence, but the flutter of embarrassment washed over me like a tide. His attention wrapped around me, both thrilling and intimidating.

"Hey, um . . ." My phone vibrated suddenly, jarring me out of the moment. The sound shattered the fragile connection we were building. I fumbled for it, heart racing as I silenced the interruption. "Sorry about that!"

Demian's lips twitched, almost forming a smile. It was subtle but enough to make my cheeks flush. I could feel the heat creeping up from my neck. Was he amused by my fluster?

"Time’s almost up," the handler interjected, his tone clipped. I felt a pang of disappointment, mixed with relief—the tension was almost unbearable. But I wasn’t done yet. I wanted more.

"Just one more question?” I asked, desperation creeping into my voice.

Demian’s gaze held mine, an electric current running between us. I could see him weighing his options, the slightest hint of a challenge dancing in his expression. “Make it count,” he said.

"Okay . . . what do you really want people to understand about you?" There it was—my chance to dig deeper.

For a moment, the room fell silent, the air thick with anticipation. He leaned forward, the intensity of his focus sending my heart racing faster. “People only see what they want,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “But understanding takes time. There’s more going on beneath the surface.”

In that moment, I felt the world shrink around us. The handler faded into the background, and it was just me and him—two souls caught in an unscripted dance. There was a promise in his words, something that stirred the longing in my chest.

"Thank you, Demian," I said softly, the weight of our shared moment hanging between us. As he stood, the space between us crackled with unspoken possibilities.

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