Page 47 of Crossing the Top Line

By the time we make it to cruising altitude, my exhaustion sits on my chest like a medicine ball, pushing me down further toward unconsciousness. I’m almost asleep when there’s a nudge on my shoulder, and I contemplate feigning slumber when I catch a whiff of apple cider. I manage to peel my eyes apart and turn to find Logan half crouched in the aisle.

“The other guy started it, I swear,” I grumble, spitting out the first coherent sentence that crosses my mind.

He smirks and chuckles under his breath. “Guilty conscience, eh, Black?” he questions, lifting one eyebrow.

I shake my head, rubbing my eyes as I sit up a little straighter. My heart hammers, trying to figure out if I actuallydiddo something wrong in the time since he ripped me a new asshole between the first and second periods for that fight and now. Nothing comes to mind, so I just swallow and stay silent. Best not to falsely incriminate myself.

After a few tense heartbeats, he drops the stern-and-disappointed act and grins at me. “I’m just yanking your chain. I wanted to let you know that you need to come to the arena an hour early tomorrow,” he says, his voice low to avoid disturbing anyone else.

My brow wrinkles in silent question, but Logan only shrugs.

“Something about a sit-down interview. I’ve been promised that it shouldn’t cut into practice, so you’re still expected to be dressed and on the ice at the usual time,” he says, straightening up with a groan.

I nod vaguely, all thoughts of sleep gone as he walks back to the front of the plane. My thoughts race, and it’s nearly impossible to pin them down as my imagination kicks into high gear. I take a few deep breaths, practicing the grounding techniques my mother drilled into me from childhood, forcing my body to yield to my will and calm down.

It doesn’t matter what tomorrow will hold. I am going to be a professional and handle this interview with grace and civility. We managed to not snap or yell at each other when I walked her to her car, so I’m sure we can both be adults for however long this interview takes. It goes against all the things I learned about communication and problem solving growing up, but I can’t force her to talk until she’s ready. Until then, I have to keep doing my best to show her I’ve changed. This is another opportunity to accomplish that.

With that resolution settling in my mind, I’m finally able to close my eyes and try to squeeze in a few hours of sleep while I can.

I rub my sweaty palms on the thighs of my jeans as I make my way toward the media room, chewing on the inside of my lower lip. I shouldn’t be this nervous for something as simple as an interview with someone from the Mystic’s public relations team. I didn’t do many when I was with the Wardens, but the few sit-downs I did were just softball questions and carefully crafted bait to get the soundbites the team needed for their marketing campaigns. A walk in the park. But my anxiety response refuses to believe that we’re walking anywhere except toward a firing squad.

When I open the door to the small room, I suck in a sharp breath. When I’d been in here before, the room had been filled to the brim with lighting equipment, makeup chairs, props, and there had been a massive greenscreen covering the back wall. But now, the greenscreen is gone, and in its place are three stalls identical to the ones in the locker room, equipment placed perfectly on the hooks and shelves, my jersey front and center. There’s only one camera and two lights, both much dimmer than the ones used during the photoshoot.

But my attention shifts as the interviewer steps out from another door, holding two folding chairs. My chest aches as I see Tori, dressed in what could loosely be called her “uniform,” a polo shirt with the logo on the chest and dress pants. Today her shirt is emerald green, which looks incredible against her complexion. She freezes when she sees me, spine straightening.

“You’re early,” she says, her voice catching in her throat.

I shrug, feet moving before I consciously command them to. I close the distance between us in a few strides, taking one of the chairs from her hand.

“Coach McQueen believes in the ‘if you’re early, you’re on time; if you’re on time, you’re late’ thing. But I can step out if you need a few more minutes,” I say, setting up the chair in the spotlight.

“No, that’s okay. But I need—”

I look up as Tori cuts herself off, a blink the only sign of my surprise to find her at my elbow, moving the chair I’d just set down ever so slightly to the left. Before I can even open my mouth to apologize or reply, she’s gone, rushing over to the camera.

“Can you sit down? I need to set the focus,” she says, words low as her brow wrinkles in concentration.

I nod, doing as she says and taking my assigned seat. The silence hangs heavy over us for the next few minutes, but for the life of me, I don’t know what to say. I promised myself I’d be a professional, but now that I’m here, I’m at a complete loss. Small talk has never been one of my strong suits, and talking about the weather seems stupid after everything I’ve put her through. So instead, I do what I know I’m good at: observing and decoding.

Her posture is stiff, even when she has to bend and twist to adjust things with the cameras and lights. But the longer she works, the more relaxed she gets. Especially when she’s not looking at me. There’s a confidence in her movements, one I recognize as a seasoned professional deep in their element. But every now and then, I catch a slight tremble in her hands. I’m warm under the glare of the spotlights, but the room overall isn’t cold. Too much caffeine, maybe?

“Where do you get your coffee?” I ask, trying to break the painfully awkward silence.

“PJs. There’s a drive-thru near my house,” she answers, hardly any inflection in her tone.

“Do they make a good caramel macchiato?” I press, spitting out the name of the first coffee beverage I can think of.

She looks up at me, head cocked to the side. Her eyes shine from beneath her slightly furrowed brows, the lighter blue one nearly the color of a cloudless summer sky.

“Yeah. It’s my favorite,” she mutters, soft enough that I’m not sure she meant to speak.

Thankfully, I’m saved from having to decide what to say next as she opens her chair and sits down, crossing one leg over the other, her phone in the hand resting on her knee.

“I’m assuming you’ve done this before,” she starts, sounding almost bored.

I smirk, unable to stop myself. “Once or twice, yeah,” I quip.

I could swear I see the tiniest smirk tug at one corner of her lips, but it’s gone too fast for me to be certain. She clears her throat and readjusts herself in the chair, and I give her an apologetic smile.

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