Page 22 of One Pucking Secret
I let out a huff as my gaze shifts back to the reporter. For someone who acts like she doesn’t want anything to do with me, Chloe certainly dressed to get my attention today.
“I’d like to start with discussing the articles that have been circulating about your parents’ accident. You’ve never disclosed this information in the past. Were you trying to keep it a secret?”
“Of course not. I just didn’t feel like my parents’ terrible choices had anything to do with my career.”
“I imagine it wasn’t easy growing up with alcoholic parents.”
I take in a deep breath, filling my lungs, and exhale slowly. “I’ll be honest, it wasn’t easy,” I start, the words coming out rough, like they’re dragging over gravel. “Mom and Dad… they loved their bottle more than anything.”
The journalist’s pen glides across the notepad, capturing every word like a netcapturing fish in a stream. Her eyes remain fixed on me, unblinking, as if she’s trying to extract every ounce of truth from my soul.
“Sounds like a tough upbringing,” she remarks. “How did you cope with that environment?”
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking beneath me. “Sports,” I reply without hesitation. “Hockey, to be precise. It was my lifeline, my escape from the madness at home. When I stepped onto the ice, everything else faded away. It was just me, my stick, and the puck.”
“And then hockey became more than just a hobby for you,” she observes, glancing up from her notepad. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself in the sport.”
I nod, a flicker of pride swelling in my chest. “I pour everything I have into it. Every early morning practice, every grueling workout session—it is all worth it when I step onto that ice and hear the roar of the crowd.”
“How do you think your experience growing up shaped you into the man you’ve become?” she asks gently, her eyes softening with something akin to empathy.
“Every day was a battle,” I admit, the admission tasting like bile. “But I figured outyoung that I wanted a different life. Hockey became my refuge—on the ice, none of that mattered.”
“Sounds like you had to grow up fast.”
“Too fast. But it made me who I am today.” I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “It wasn’t just the ice that kept me sane, though,” I find myself divulging, surprising even myself with the readiness of my truth. “There was this local community center. It became a place where the sound of my skates on the ice didn’t drown out reality, but shaped it. Gave me a perspective and opportunities I never saw before.”
She pauses, eyes catching mine, waiting for me to continue.
“Kids like me, we found something there. A kind of sanctuary. They had after-school programs, hot meals, people who actually cared if you showed up the next day.” My voice is steady, but inside, I’m a tumult of nerves.
“So, does this mean you’re involved in charity work?” she probes, curiosity evident.
“Yes,” I admit. “Because I know what it’s like to need an escape from the life handed to you. That center… it was my lifeline.”
“Thank you, Wyatt. For sharing your story.” She clicks the recorder off, and the finality of it hangs between us.
I nod, feeling exposed, like I’ve peeled back a layer of myself. “Anytime,” I say, though the word feels hollow, more reflex than truth, as we both stand.
“The article should be up in about a week,” she adds.
“Sounds good,” I reply, forcing a light tone despite the weight of what’s just happened.
Chloe steps forward, her presence steady. She extends her hand with a reassuring smile. “Thank you for doing this,” she says, her voice sincere.
The reporter gives a polite nod and offers me a quick handshake as well before gathering her things and slipping out the door, leaving just Chloe and me in the room.
Every step I take away from the interview table feels like I’m trying to distance myself from something I can’t outrun. The vulnerability, the weight of everything I’ve said, lingers in the air like a stubborn fog.
“Hey, you did well,” Chloe’s voice cuts through my reverie. Her presence is soothing after the intensity of the interview.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” I admit, the vulnerability of the moment still clinging to me.
“The public is going to respond well, I promise.” Her confidence is reassuring.
“You ready for our date?” I ask, shifting the focus from my unsettled feelings to the evening ahead.
She breathes out a defeated sigh. “As promised. Where are we going?”
