Page 78 of Penalty to the Heart

Argh.

I squint against the blinding lights as the photographer signals for us to gather closer like a big, happy family instead of the dysfunctional mess we really are. This photoshoot is taking forever, and the continuous flashing is starting to get on my nerves. I try to focus on the task at hand, but the constant clicking of cameras and the reporter’s incessant questions are not only distracting but also starting to piss me off.

“So, Caleb, how do you feel the team has done so far with Jack no longer in command?” the reporter asks with his trusty recorder held up high, trying to get a good quote.

When I stay silent and throw the bastard a scathing look, Nate quickly steps in and answers for me.

“Jack might not be in command, as you so put it, but this team would not be what it is without him. Every win we’ve achieved so far could have only been possible due to his leadership up until now,” Nate responds smoothly. However, by the tick of his jaw, I can tell he’s just as annoyed by the question as I was.

Nate has never been a fan of the spotlight.

Usually that role would have been left for me to fill. I’m known for being the social butterfly of the team and used to love to run my mouth to the media given the opportunity. However, I’m in no mood to tolerate reporters lately since every question usually involves Jack, so Nate has willingly put himself in their line of sight and taken whatever bullet they aim our way.

I hate to say it, but Nate stepping up and taking charge tonight has actually been a load off my shoulders.

Something tells me if someone were to shove a mic in my face, they wouldn’t like what would come out of my mouth.

As the photoshoot continues, I keep my head down, trying to block out the noise and the flashing lights. The only thing I can’t block out are the ear-to-ear smiles from my teammates. They’re all beaming with excitement since we’re currently holding the number one spot in the NHL Eastern Conference. With only three games left to play, we’re practically a shoo-in for the Stanley Cup finals. Unfortunately, I’m unable to share their sentiment since I haven’t touched the ice in weeks, forced to watch from the sidelines as the Guardians take the lead.

“I think we got it,” the photographer says, pleased with the haul of photos taken tonight.

“We good here?” Nate asks, just as eager as I am to call it a night.

“Actually, I have just one more question for Caleb,” the annoying reporter says, his gaze directed at me. “Do you know if Coach Byrne will keep you on the bench for the rest of the season?” he asks with a smug expression. I clench my jaw, unable to ignore the condescending tone in his voice. “All of Boston would love nothing more than to see the Donovan brothers bring the Stanley Cup home. But seeing as that doesn’t look like it will be a possibility for Jack, do you think your chance of winning such a title on your own merit is no longer possible without his aid?”

Before I can open my mouth to tell this asshole to eat a dick, Nate storms into the rescue again.

“Caleb is a vital part of our team,” he says firmly, shooting the reporter a menacing glower. “He’s a talented goalie, and we’re lucky to have him on board. When the time comes, his skills will speak for themselves.”

I appreciate Nate coming to my defense, but I can’t seem to rid myself of the rage brewing inside me. I’m tired of these reporters thinking they can dictate the narrative of my career and character.

This fucker doesn’t know me.

He doesn’t know the first thing about me.

No time like the present to introduce myself.

“You have been on my ass all night to get a quote.” I point to the arrogant reporter. “You want it so bad? Here it is,” I taunt, throwing both my middle fingers in the air at him. “Here’s your motherfucking quote. Now sit on it and give it a good spin.”

I turn on my heel and storm off the set with my nostrils flaring, unbothered by the cameras clicking furiously behind me.

As I make my way out of the studio, I hear Nate’s voice calling after me. “Caleb, wait!” he says, jogging to catch up with me. “I’m sorry about what went down just now. That idiot shouldn’t have said that to you.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my rage, but to no avail.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t say anything that anyone else isn’t thinking,” I growl, pissed.

“That’s not true,” Nate defends.

“Isn’t it? Tell me you haven’t thought about it. That without Jack, I might as well hang up my jersey since I’m no help to anyone right now.”

“I…” he starts, unable to meet my angry gaze.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” I grimace at his hesitation.

I start to turn around, but he stops me by grabbing my shoulder.

“I’m worried about you,” he says, true fear for what I’ll do next edged in his features.

---