Page 19 of Reckless On Ice

A reporter asks Monty about his goal, the game's only one. I look around the room while he answers and catch the catty reporter’s eyes. Her red lips are set in a slight smile that looks scarier than you’d expect after a win like this. I’m not looking forward to whatever she has up her sleeve.

“Speaking of mindsets, how were you able to focus and get your mind off your viral video going into the game? The video of you has reached a wide audience, nearly four-point-five million views now, and that can’t be easy to forget. Did it have any impact on your playing style or focus? How have you been working to correct your attitude regarding other athletes’ alleged sexuality?” The reporter, Lilah, I remember, crosses her arms, her phone held out, recording my answer.

I tense in the hard plastic chair, her questions striking like arrows in battle, each one hitting my one exposed weakness. She couldn’t just let it go and let me move on. Heat rises in my blood, anger building fast, a sharp retort already forming. But before I let it out and rip her a new one, I look over at McKenna and clock her wide eyes as she fiddles with the end of her shiny red ponytail nervously. I know she’s telepathically communicating with me to keep my shit together and be careful about the words that come out of my mouth next. I bite my tongue and stop myself before answering rashly as I remember Knox’s text. He told me tothinkbefore I speak, even if I’m angry. And Lilah is a woman who makes me madenough to spit flames, which is what I fucking want to do. Instead, I dig deep for a calm that desperately eludes me and pretend she’s anyone else, asking any other question. I nod at McKenna to let her know I got her message before I answer.

“Mindset is the most powerful tool a player can bring onto the ice with them,” I begin, hoping Lilah can feel the holes I’m burning in her face with the anger I know is still in my eyes, even if my voice remains calm. “We can’t let the outside world distract us from what’s happening right in the moment during the game. I leave the past where it belongs and move on, knowing I can’t change how I’ve played before, or even what I said or how it came off. I can only work to do better going forward.” That’s an answer worthy of the training Knox is driving into me. McKenna and her entire PR staff couldn’t even find fault in that.

Lilah considers me, her whiskey eyes shrewd and calculating. I turn away as another reporter asks Monty about the offensive tactics that were used. Once he’s answered, she springs another question on me.

“Sources say you’ve moved in with the very man you slandered in that video. How did that come about, and has it influenced how you see him now?” Lilah thrusts her phone back toward me. I cannot believe her audacity or her sources.

What the actual fuck? Who told her I moved in with Knox? I don't have to answer this. It’s not a question about the game or even hockey-related, but I have a feeling Lilah will take my refusal to answer as a cop-out or infer some kind of nefariousmeaning into it when she should just mind her own business. I have to answer it and put a stop to this train of questioning for good.

“As I’ve told you before, I knew Knox back in the day, and we use the same agent. I needed a place to stay, and our agent arranged it. That’s the last personal question I’ll answer. If it’s not focused on the hockey game, don’t bother asking me.”

I’m seething, my voice tight as I grind my molars around the words that I can barely grit out. At least I didn't tell her to fuck off or flip the table like I wanted to. I didn't even say anything too telling or go off on some belligerent tangent that would get me canceled and traded, or worse, put on waivers and potentially hidden away in some minor league team or overseas. McKenna looks relieved from her spot in the corner and points at another reporter for the next question.

Thankfully, Lilah leaves me alone for the rest of the post-game press. I’m able to get through the remaining questions, which are all focused on hockey, as they should be, and much easier to field.

Monty pats my back as we enter the locker room after the media circus finishes. “You handled that well. I didn't know you moved in with the footballer. What happened to your place?”

“It’s the fucking video, man. My landlord kicked me out,” I explain. “I never should have opened my mouth in the first place, but damn, it feels shitty that someone had to capture the worst of me and share it like that’s all I am.”

“We know you’re more than your words from one conversation. We all say shit we don't mean on occasion, and sometimes what we say comes off the wrong way, even if we meant it differently. It’ll get better.”

Monty sounds every bit the dad he is, reminding me that I’m more than this one crappy situation, and that he believes in me, even if he doesn’t say the words outright. His kid, Enzo, has it good with a dad like that. I wish I’d had a dad like him. I wouldn’t want to be a single dad like Monty, but he has a troupe of nannies, and his parents moved to Atlanta to help him, so at least he has a support system in place for our insane schedules.

I shower and change back into my game day suit to go out with the boys to a bar that Nico picked called The Hideout. It’s outside of the sports and entertainment complex, so hopefully, there won’t be too many hockey fans who were at the game. It’s high-end because that’s how Nico rolls with his Miami vibe. We’re given a semi-private section with several booths to fit our group of big athletes and the collection of people we’ve picked up on the way from the arena to the bar.

Davy brought his wife, Tatiana, who looks like a model and probably is. They converse quickly in Russian and sound like they’re fighting, then suddenly they’re making out, which confuses the hell out of me. Several players brought their stunning wives and girlfriends, who are all talking to one another at a booth together because they’ve already grown tight. There are suddenlya lotof people around. It leaves mefeeling inadequate and lonely again.

I look for the single guys. Chad, Westin, Monty, Rook, Nico, and Campbell have a booth that looks a lot friendlier than a bunch of couples. Monty scoots over and makes room for me to sit down.

“The star of the game needs to celebrate,” Rook says, passing me a beer. How he managed to get a bucket of iced-down beers already is a mystery in this busy place.

I wave off the compliment. “The team made it happen, and if anyone is a star, it’s our captain, with the only goal of the night,” I say, raising my beer to Monty, and the boys follow suit, clinking our bottles together.

“Let’s keep that energy going into the next game against Carolina, and we’ll see who rules the dirty South,” Monty says before tipping his bottle back.

“Atlanta isn’t as bad as I expected,” Nico says, setting his bottle on the table. “The food is amazing, the nightlife is more than decent, and there’s every sport you would want to see live.”

“It’s hot as hell, though, and the humidity is something else,” Rook complains, wiping his face like he can feel the humidity inside the air-conditioned building.

“That’s the Minnesota talking,” Westin says, laughing. “You’ll get used to it.” He came from a team in Florida and knows heat and humidity.

“My brother has been keeping the thermostat at seventy-five like the cheap ass he is,” Rook goes on. “I told him I canafford to keep the place feeling like a Minnesota winter if I want to, but he said something about it being better for the environment.”

“I didn’t realize your brother moved here with you,” I say. “You’re a twin, right?”

“There are two of you?” Campbell asks, horrified. “That’s another level of messed up. You’re bad enough on your own.” We all laugh, and Rook shakes his head, though he’s smiling.

“Knight moved with me to take care of my dog when I’m on the road, since he works from home as a telehealth therapist, rarely leaves the house, and didn't have anything keeping him up North. He’s nothing like me,” Rook insists. “He’s a total nerd. His idea of fun is reading a shit ton of books instead of having a life, or going out to do things that would actually make sense.”

“Wait, your brother’s name is Knight, and you’re Rook? What the fuck were your parents thinking?” Westin asks, his face a priceless blend of shock and humor that has Rook turning red.

Rook puffs his chest and punches Westy in the arm. “Fuck you, man. My dad’s a chess grand champion.”

“Your dad’s a chess master, and your brother’s a nerdy therapist who is probably super smart, too. What happened to you?” Campbell asks, the blow landing on Rook’s pride and making everyone at the table laugh.

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