Page 19 of Crossing the Top Line

“Do you always bring your rock collection to work?” I ask, trying to break the awkward silence with a joke.

She seems to shake herself a little, looking up into my face. “Well, you never know when you’re going to need a cinderblock,” she fires back, smirking at me.

I laugh at her wit, motioning for her to lead the way down the hall. She takes off, walking with a straight back and purpose in her steps. I breathe deep, trying to catch more than a hint of her sweet tea and magnolia scent. But there’s only the barest whisper of it under the harsh plasticky odor of the cleaning products.

“Anything you want me to say?” I ask into the silence.

She shrugs, falling into step beside me. “He probably already has some sort of article written, and he’s going to be fishing for the correct soundbite. As long as you don’t give away confidential info, then you’ll do fine,” she replies, tone flat and professional.

“So, I shouldn’t tell him about Max and his little boo thing?” I ask, lowering my voice to almost a whisper.

She turns and gasps, eyes wide with horror. When she sees the smirk on my face, her surprised expression morphs into a scowl and she swats my arm playfully.

“Absolutely not!” she admonishes, whipping back around so fast the tips of her gold-streaked hair strike out at my skin. “Just stick to the usual stuff. Nothing crazy, please?”

My smirk drops into a small, genuine smile. She’s so easy to rile up, but it’s clear she really cares about her job. It’s a good thing, then, that I’m the one doing this interview. Eli wouldn’t take it seriously for a second, and God only knows how that would go over.

We push through the highly polished doors to the arena lobby, and I spot Mark Henderson right away. I don’t know what exactly I was expecting, but Mark is more or less what I pictured. Balding, clothes a little too tight especially around his middle, glasses that frame beady eyes. But my inspection comes to a halt as the journalist’s face twists into a sneer.

“Who is this?” he asks, not even looking at me, but instead turning his glare to Tori.

“Oliver Astrauckas. He’s played for the Shreveport Krewe for the last four years, and was one of their top scoring forwards,” Tori recites, her voice an unnaturally high pitched and bouncy sound.

I look at her, surprise pulling my eyebrows toward my hairline. I didn’t think she knew me from Adam, but here she is spouting off my stats with ease. What an interesting woman.

“A minor leaguer,” Mark snorts, rolling his eyes derisively. “Where’s Jari Hakala? Or Markus Dahlberg?”

My grip tightens on the strap of Tori’s bag, hackles rising. I’ve never heard a journalist speak to someone like this, not even when I played major juniors in Canada. Tori did not have to go out of her way to do anything for this guy, and he has the nerve to look at her like she’s something he stepped in. I clench my jaw, holding back the venom I really wish I could launch at him.

But his demand doesn’t even phase Tori for a moment. “Unavailable. You requested someone to interview, and I’ve brought you a talented, young player. But if this doesn’t work for you, then maybe we can try again another—”

“No, this is fine,” Mark grumbles, looking at me for the first time.

We look each other up and down, and I can’t say I find anything to be impressed with. I’m taller than him by at least six inches and could probably dead lift his body weight in my sleep. He pulls a notebook and a pocket recorder out of his bag, and I stare at him, ice in my veins as he gets his things in order.

“This is Mark Henderson for the Time Picayune. I’m here with…” Mark starts, speaking into the recorder before trailing off and looking at me expectantly.

I let his unspoken insult slide, clearing my throat. “Oliver Astrauckas, forward,” I answer, my eyes not moving from Mark’s face, cataloging every micro expression.

“Is this your first season with the Mystic?” Mark asks, as if Tori didn’t just give him that answer not two minutes ago.

“No, I’ve been part of the organization since I was drafted in the first round six years ago,” I reply, not missing a beat.

“But is this your first time at training camp?” Mark asks with an impatient huff.

“No, I was here for the last four years. I’ve just played the regular season in Shreveport,” I say, impressed with myself for keeping my calm.

And it seems like my lack of reaction might be starting to get on Mark’s nerves. Or at least that’s one explanation for why he keeps huffing and puffing like he’s trying to blow down a little pig’s house.

“How are you finding Logan McQueen?” he asks at last, moving on from his first attempt to get under my skin.

I give him a little grin, not sure if it comes off as nice as I want it to, but not really caring. “Coach McQueen is great. He really knows the game, and I’ve learned so much in the last couple of weeks,” I say honestly.

“He’s the youngest coach in the league right now,” Mark says.

I blink once at him, not sure how to respond to the non-question. “And John McNally is the oldest coach in the league,” I reply, referring to the aging coach of the Edmonton Oilers.

“I don’t know what John has to do with anything,” Mark blusters, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet.

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