Page 48 of Crossing the Top Line

“Well, try to keep your answers PG and on topic as best as you can. We’re billing this as a series of honest interviews to let the public get to know the guys behind the sweaters. So keep in mind that this is supposed to be an interview with Spencer Black, the hockey player,” she goes on, ending with a pointed look.

Not Spencer Black, the alpha-hole who fucked her over six years ago,I finish mentally. I sigh and swallow hard, looking away for a moment to center myself. Professional. I’m a professional and I can do this.

I turn back to her, sliding into a practice grin that I’ve honed to look natural, trying to keep my breathing even. “Let’s get this show on the road,” I say with a chuckle.

Tori pauses, looking at me critically for a moment before she clicks a remote, and a little red light appears on the front of the camera. I force myself to keep my attention on Tori’s face and not on the lens, and try to stop my hands from fidgeting.

“Spencer Black interview, take one,” Tori says loudly, looking down at her phone for a moment before back up at me.

“Let’s start with an easy one. How does it feel to be playing for your hometown team?” she asks, her voice taking on a higher pitch and bouncy cadence that catches me a little off guard.

I pause before I answer, considering my approach. A hundred different media-trained answers spring to mind, but she said this was supposed to be an honest interview. I take a deep breath, decision made.

“It’s a dream come true, really. It’s hard to put into words how excited I was to hear about the trade offer, and the fact that it came from the Mystic was the cherry on top,” I reply, smile falling a little.

“What do you mean?” Tori’s question comes out too quickly. She wasn’t expecting that answer.

I sigh and shrug. “Don’t get me wrong; the Wardens are a great organization, but I just…didn’t fit,” I say, picking my words with care.

“And you do here?” Tori probes, leaning forward in her seat.

“Oh, yeah. It’s like night and day,” I answer, my smile now feeling genuine for the first time. “The team is good, there’s no arguing that. But…” I trail off, not sure I should continue. We’re veering off topic from her question, and I don’t want to derail the entire interview with my complaints.

“But?” she pushes, whatever list of questions she had completely abandoned.

I scratch the back of my neck, looking at the floor for a second. “But it wasn’t like here. From the moment I stepped off the plane, I’ve felt welcomed by this organization and everyone in it. The guys in the locker room are always trying to make sure everyone’s included in off-ice stuff, and the staff has been incredible. The Wardens…have a different culture,” I explain, choosing my words with care.

I look up as I catch Tori pressing the remote again, stopping the recording before turning back to me. “Off the record, what the hell does that mean?” she pushes, eyes flashing.

I shrug. “It’s hard to explain. It was just a different vibe. The vets did their thing, and if you were someone they liked, you got invited to parties and shit. I came in as a fourth overall pick, and they…decided to give me a hard time.”

My memories of my time in San Francisco surface to make my heart race. I take a few deep, even breaths, willing myself to calm even as my fingers twist around each other between my spread knees.

“Are you saying they hazed you?” Tori asks, her flat tone more of a statement than a question.

I shake my head. “No, nothing like that, but I just wasn’t really…inwith the team. Hell, after five seasons on the main roster, I was still living alone in a studio apartment,” I comment, scoffing out an ironic chuckle.

Echoes of our fight, of the things I’d never meant to say, seem to join us in the room, the specters of a confession I still can’t decide if I regret making. Tori seems to sense them, too, and something shifts in her face, color staining her cheeks. Tori’s expression softens, but there’s still a burning behind her mismatched eyes that makes my stomach clench. I swallow and shift in my seat, pulling my imagination back from the edge of the gutter.

“That’s really shitty,” she says, shaking her head.

“It is what it is. I’m here now, and that’s all that matters,” I say, trying to smile for her.

She looks at me, really looks at me for what might be the first time in six years. I’m not sure what she sees as I keep my expression pleasant, doing my best to chase away the bad memories. The seconds stretch on, but at last, Tori looks away, clicking her remote again to restart the recording.

“What do you love about New Orleans?” she asks, that false brightness back in full force.

Almost forty minutes later, Tori shuts off the camera and stretches her back. We didn’t go off the record again, and I made sure to keep my answers more professional this time. By the end of the interview, I wasn’t forcing a smile anymore, and I even managed to make Tori laugh a couple of times.

“I think we’ve got plenty to work with,” she says, getting to her feet and shoving her phone in her pocket.

I follow her lead, nodding and shoving my hands in my pockets. The awkwardness is back again with a vengeance, and I stare at my shoes, rocking from the balls of my feet to my heels. After four agonizingly silent heartbeats, I look up and see Tori behind the camera, brow furrowed in concentration again. Taking that as all the cue I’m going to get, I turn and start heading toward the door.

“Spencer,” Tori calls out cautiously.

I turn back to look at her, trying to ignore the goosebumps that rise on my arms at the sound of my name in her voice. She’s biting her lower lip, her eyes cloudy with a dense mixture of emotions.

“I’m…sorry about how the Wardens treated you,” she starts, the words sticking a little in her throat.

---