Page 30 of Power Pucking Play

Gio slouches into the room, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. His eye is already turning an impressive shade of purple, and his jaw is set in a way that screams, “approach at your own risk”.

"Mr. De Luca, can you comment on the fight in the first period?"

"Gio, how do you respond to accusations that your aggressive play style is hurting the team?"

The questions fly fast and furious, and I watch as Gio's knuckles turn white where he's gripping the podium. He gives short, clipped answers, clearly not interested in engaging with this particular crowd.

I can't blame him. These reporters are ruthless, always looking for a juicy headline or a scandal to boost their ratings. And Gio'srecent behavior on the ice has certainly given them plenty of material to work with.

"Look," he starts, his voice tight, "it was a tough game. These things happen."

But the vultures aren't satisfied. They press harder, each question more pointed than the last.

Technically, I should be one of those vultures. As the co-lead correspondent forSports News Now, it's my job to get the story and deliver it to our viewers. But right now, I can't bring myself to join in the feeding frenzy.

I can see the frustration building in Gio, and I know it's only a matter of time before he explodes.

"I simply wanted to defend my teammate," he tries to explain. But it's not enough. The reporters want blood, and they won't stop until they get it.

I can see the exact moment Gio snaps. Another probing question pushes him over the edge, and he grabs the microphone with a ferocity that startles everyone in the room.

"Listen here," he growls, "I'm not just some mindless goon out there. I play hard because that's what my team needs from me. And if anyone has a problem with that, they can come say it to my face. Hockey is an aggressive game. Every one of you knows that."

His emerald green irises are pools of fire, and I can practically feel the tension radiating off of him. But even in his anger, there's a glint of determination. Gio is a leader on this team, and he won't let anyone question his loyalty or commitment.

"You want to know what happened?" he rumbles, leaning into the mic. "I played hockey. It's a physical game. Sometimes people get hit. Sometimes tempers flare. You all sit here and judge every move we make, but you have no idea what it's like out there."

The room goes silent. Even I'm holding my breath.

"You think it's easy? The pressure, the expectations? Every game, every practice, we're putting our bodies on the line. And for what? So you can sit here and pick apart every mistake?"

He's on a roll now, years of pent-up frustration pouring out.

"You want a story? Here's your story. I'm tired. I'm sore. And I'm sick of pretending that every hit, every fight, doesn't take a piece of me. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

With that, he stands and, instead of storming out, he calmly walks out of the room, leaving a wake of stunned silence behind him.

I should be scribbling notes furiously, but my pen is frozen above the paper. This...this is the real Gio. Raw, unfiltered, human.

And I have no idea what to do with it.

Two hours later, I'm standing outside Gio's favorite gym, shivering in the Chicago night air. It's March in our lovely Midwestern city, but it might as well be January with how cold it is. I'm beginning to think this was a bad idea.

That is, until Gio's black sports car pulls up as expected.

He spots me as he's getting out. Wearing shorts and a tank top like the weather doesn't bother him at all, he looks at me as if scanning me for threats.

"Brookes." My last name is a bark more than a word. "What, the press conference wasn't enough for you?"

I reach inside my bag, grabbing the thermos of espresso I picked up on the way here. "I come bearing gifts."

Gio's eyebrow raises as he takes the thermos from me. He sniffs the contents. "Espresso?"

"Of course. You're clearly addicted to the stuff. And a DVD copy ofGoodfellaswouldn't fit in my bag."

He grunts in approval and takes a sip. "Not bad...for a journalist." He says the word as if it's a curse.

I ignore the jab. "I wanted to talk," I say, trying my best not to let my teeth chatter. Fuck, it's cold out here. "Maybe even to apologize."

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