Page 16 of Penalty Zone

“I helped him with his anxiety or panic attack. I’m not sure what that was,” I say casually, hiding the fact that my body still buzzes from Caleb.

He glares, and I hope the rift doesn’t affect their friendship. Since there isn’t an acceptable explanation for why Caleb responds to me, I change the subject.

“You had a great game.” I reach out to squeeze his shoulder, but he backs away. “What did Grayson say? Are you okay?” My gaze travels the length of him as if I can spot an injury. He should be my primary focus.

“I’m fine,” he says with an annoyed expression, and the uncomfortable silence stretches between us. “I’m going to shower.” He turns away, and I’m helpless to stop him.

The hallway’s empty, and the distance between Mason and me grows both metaphorically and literally. I should have tried harder to connect.

Benz’s issue should be much easier to solve. His anxiety likely results from insecurity or fear of disappointing others. He needs to be built up and feel in control. More structure in his life will help him.

The pressroom has media wall to wall, everyone looking for a new angle on this team’s story. This is unfamiliar territory with players openly in relationships with other men. Online trolls use vile language, and the media wants to cash in on any story they can find.

This is what I fear for myself…and Caleb, if he comes out. Instead of my accomplishments, people will speculate on my sexuality and dissect every relationship with my teammates and friends.

Benz takes his seat after ducking into the locker room to take off his pads and scans the room to confirm I’m here.

He skated into the goal without hesitation when called upon and played flawlessly, ignoring the mental warfare the other team tried to play with insults. I heard them even after the game ended. He’s earned my respect as a player and a man.

All the verbal jabs stopped short of slurs, but the players can read between the lines, and the refs didn’t do a good enough job of curtailing their behavior.

Finn steps up to the mic. “Our players won’t comment on what was said during the game. You are more than welcome to ask the other team if they have the guts to verbalize their trash talk outside of the rink. Please ask other questions, or we will endthis session.” Finn leaves no room for argument, and the media wisely changes their tactics.

Benz’s green eyes stay trained on me, turning my skin hot and itchy. It’s disconcerting but not unpleasant. I have no right to enjoy his stare. Those feelings have to be locked down.

He answers the questions robotically, as if he’s reading from a script without his trademark smile and boyish charm. He’s a people person but not today. Today, his body language suggests he’d rather be almost anywhere but here.

It’s appealing, the thought of being his shelter and protecting him from life’s harshness. He’s a rare gem in a sport of self-centered men. I would know because I’m one of them.

Their allotted time is almost over, and Mason steps into the room and stands next to me before he realizes I’m here. He flinches but stays put after attracting the attention of a few reporters.

One blogger, from a site known more for its celebrity gossip than sports, raises his hand and turns to Mason when called upon. “What did your dad say about the game? Did he give you any advice on your missed shot in the second period or how to handle the hits?”

Mason’s lip curls in fury, and his jaw clenches, glancing between me and the blogger. The NHL prides itself on the tradition of hockey families. Although it’s a natural curiosity, the questions can get tedious.

Finn grabs a mic. “Mason Griffin is not on the list for media access. Please direct your questions to the panel.” Finn waves his hand at the table of players and a coach.

Mason lets out a disgusted sound as he stalks out. Reporters shout questions at his back and then at me.

“What advice have you offered Mason?”

“Are you proud of your son?”

“How does it feel to be associated with a different team?”

I ignore the questions and motion to the panel, but Finn takes charge. “Your time has ended. Thanks for coming, and we’ll see you next game.”

Not liking Caleb’s nervously shifting eyes, I push my way to him and forge us a path out of the room. His arm is warm under my palm, and my fingers tingle from the contact.

“You did a good job. Make sure you drink lots of water and eat a big meal tonight.” My words surprise me and him as well. I have no business telling him what to do.

I’m even more surprised when I hear him say softly, “Yes, sir.”

My blood stirs, and that feeling under my skin pushes out as if it needs more. As if it’s demanding more. But I’m unsure how to get it.

Mason reappears and drags Benz into the locker room, and I refuse to analyze my craving formore.

There’s no answer when I knock on Mason’s door, but I hear the TV and pound louder. Sitting home, I watched the highlights, which showcased Mason’s injury when I could slow the speed. I brought supplies and food, hoping to show him I care and to make amends.

---