Page 6 of Tempting the Teammate
In less than forty-eight hours, all of this would be performance. Every conversation, every laugh, every moment would be scrutinized for its entertainment value. The thought should have excited me. Instead, it just made me tired.
I opened my eyes to find Andrei watching me, his laptop screen dark. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said automatically, then reconsidered. “Actually, I don’t know. This whole thing feels bigger than I expected.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. It does.”
We looked at each other across the small space between us, and for a moment, I felt like we were back to being just Griffin and Andrei, best friends who’d shared everything from street hockey victories to late-night camping stories. Not characters in someone else’s story, but ourselves.
Then Andrei’s phone buzzed with a message, breaking the spell. He glanced at it and sighed. “Phoenix wants everyone downstairs for a team meeting. Guess we better go face the music.”
I groaned but rolled off my bed, already missing the quiet intimacy of our conversation. Downstairs, Phoenix wouldrally the troops, and we’d all pretend to be excited about our upcoming television debut. We’d joke and complain and eventually accept our assigned roles because that’s what teammates do.
But first, I had these few seconds of walking beside Andrei toward our door, close enough to catch the scent of his shampoo, close enough to feel the solid presence of someone who knew me better than any producer ever could.
THREE
Andrei
The pathto the rink cut across campus through patches of frost-brittle grass and naked maple trees. Griffin walked beside me, breath clouding in the morning air, stick slung over his shoulder with the casual confidence of someone who’d never doubted his place in the world. His hair caught the weak sunlight, turning golden at the edges where it curled against his neck.
I shoved my hands deeper into my jacket pockets and tried to ignore the weight of what was coming.
Phoenix’s voice from two nights ago still echoed in my head. He’d stood in front of the fireplace in the team house common room, shoulders squared, jaw set with the kind of determination that had made him captain despite being younger than half the guys on the roster.
“I may not be happy with it,” he’d said, scanning our faces with those sharp eyes that missed nothing, “but this docuseries is happening. We do our best to play our parts and help this team recover from last season’s devastating loss.” His voice had cracked slightly on the word “devastating,” and I’d felt the familiar twist in my stomach that came with remembering theSteel Saints crushing us. “And if it gets tough, which I know it will, come to one of our own. We’re Arctic Titans, dammit. We keep our own house in order. So whatever troubles you, you have a band of brothers right here to help you through it.”
He’d paused then, letting his gaze sweep across the room one more time before adding, “Meeting adjourned.”
I’d felt it, too, that surge of inspiration that had straightened spines and lifted chins around the room. Phoenix had that effect on people. He could make you believe in things you’d written off, make you want to fight battles you’d already lost.
But inspiration was easier in the warm glow of our living room than it was walking toward a building full of cameras and microphones and strangers who wanted to turn our lives into entertainment.
“You nervous?” Griffin asked, adjusting his grip on his stick.
“No.”
He shot me a sideways look, hazel eyes bright with amusement. “Right. Because you look totally relaxed.”
I was nervous. My shoulders felt rigid beneath my jacket, and I’d been clenching my jaw without realizing it. The knowledge that in ten minutes I’d be stripped down to my gear with a microphone taped to my chest, every word recorded and catalogued for later dissection, made my skin crawl.
The rink came into view, its familiar brick facade somehow less welcoming with the NextPlay Media vans parked outside like predators waiting to feed.
“It’s just hockey,” Griffin said, as if reading my thoughts. His voice carried that easy optimism that made people gravitate toward him, made them want to believe whatever he believed. “Same ice, same pucks, same us.”
Same us.The words settled something in my chest, loosened the knot that had been building since I’d woken up. Same us. The boy who loved and the boy who had no clue.
The locker room buzzed with nervous energy and the quiet efficiency of a sound crew that had done this a hundred times before. Men in black T-shirts moved between our usual spots, testing equipment and marking down numbers on clipboards. The overhead lights seemed brighter than usual, casting everything in harsh relief.
One by one, we stripped off our shirts and stood still while assistants taped wireless microphones to our chests. The adhesive was cold against my skin, the small black device heavier than I’d expected. An older woman with graying hair and gentle hands positioned mine carefully, murmuring instructions about not touching it or getting it too wet.
“Microphone fourteen, Andrei Sokolov,” she called to her colleague, who made a note on his chart.
I pulled my practice jersey over the device, the familiar weight of my gear settling around me. Shoulder pads, elbow guards, gloves that had molded to the shape of my hands over two years of use. The ritual of dressing was the same, but everything felt different with that small electronic intruder pressed against my ribs.
Griffin caught my eye as he laced his skates, winking with the same careless charm that had gotten us both out of trouble more times than I could count. The gesture was so perfectly him that I felt my mouth quirk upward despite the anxiety coursing through my bloodstream.
The ice was a stage. Two camera crews had positioned themselves at opposite ends of the rink, their equipment sleek and unobtrusive but impossible to ignore. Additional microphones hung suspended above the boards, waiting to catch every grunt of exertion and scrape of blade against ice.
