Page 18 of Crossing the Top Line

Mark doesn’t miss a beat, much to my chagrin. “Actually, for once there is something you could do for me. My boss has been bugging me for an interview. Any chance you could pull someone aside for a few minutes?”

My heart turns over in my chest painfully. We haven’t had a chance to media train any of the new blood, and all of the veterans I could ask would refuse to speak with Mark one-on-one. But with the first game coming up, we really could use all the good press we could get.

“Let me ask my boss, and then we’ll see what we can do,” I reply, the best non-answer I can come up with.

He sighs like I’ve just asked him to give up his winning lottery ticket, but doesn’t try to argue more and steps aside for me to enter the employee only door.

Once I’m in the cool, low light of the tunnels, I consider waiting and then telling Mark to fuck off. But Dee would have my head if I intentionally passed on something like this. So, I pull my phone from my pocket and type out a message.

Me: Mark wants an interview. What should I tell him?

It takes a few minutes to get an answer, but my stomach drops to the concrete below my feet as I read the reply.

Dee: So, get him one.

Well, shit.

It’salittlebittersweetwatching guys I played with last year on the Krewe pack up their gear and head out of the locker room. But with this round of cuts, about half the hopefuls who started training camp are gone, and me and Eli are still here. Management could have waited until after our afternoon session was over, but if I’ve learned one thing about Logan McQueen in the couple of weeks I’ve known him, it’s that he’s decisive and only wants what’s best for his team. And so far, he seems to think me and Eli are just that.

I’m almost out of all my pads, when a hard knock comes on the locker room door. We all look up to see Dennis, the equipment manager, sticking his head through a small gap.

“Y’all decent?” he calls, his thick Cajun accent making the two words sound like one.

I look around as everyone mumbles their affirmative responses. There are a few guys, including Eli, shirtless, but no one’s stripped down to their birthday suit. Everyone sits up a little straighter as the door opens wider and Tori, of all people, walks in. A couple of the veterans cheer a little greeting to her, which she acknowledges with a little smile, but there’s a tightness to her face that makes me frown.

“Can I have the mic back?” she asks once she stops in front of Eli.

“Aw, already? I was just getting started,” Eli throws back, holding out the battery pack neatly wrapped with the wire.

“Maybe another day, if you stick around,” she replies, not even fazed by his impressive puppy dog pout.

There’s a little reactionary “ooooh” from the rest of the locker room, and I can’t help but grin. God, this woman has no fear. She looks around and sighs, her back curling under the weight of her bag as she shoves the mic pack into a side pocket.

“Does anyone feel like dealing with Henderson today?” she asks in a dull monotone.

Almost like magic, the entire room full of adrenaline-fueled hockey players goes silent. No one meets her eye as she turns slowly, finding literally anything else to occupy their attention. It’s mostly led by the veterans, the rookies mimicking them out of a desire to look like they’re in on whatever secret they all have. Eli and I share a look; we’re familiar enough with the poor excuse of a journalist not to volunteer immediately, but then I look at Spencer. He’s biting his lip, eyes cloudy with internal conflict.

“I’ll do it,” I announce, speaking when no one else will.

Tori turns and looks at me, her eyes wide with surprise. I rip the Velcro off my elbow pads and start loosening my padded shorts. I wore a Mystic t-shirt under my uniform today, and it’s still slightly damp from sweat. Tori watches me, and I see her throat bob slightly as she swallows hard. She shifts the bag on her shoulder before nodding, almost to herself.

“I’ll wait outside for you then,” she mutters, racing back out of the locker room door.

As soon as the slab of solid wood closes, conversation picks back up, and almost all of it is aimed at me.

“Dude, what are you thinking?”

“Henderson is going to rip you a new asshole.”

“I’ll do it. You don’t have to.”

I hold up a hand and shake my head. “Nah, it’s okay. I’ve got this,” I reply smoothly, standing up and sliding free from my practice pads.

I finish undressing, checking my basketball shorts pockets for my keys, phone, and wallet before tucking my sweat damp hair under a backwards baseball hat. There are a few last “good lucks” thrown at my back as I shoulder my way out of the locker room and to the hallway beyond. Tori is leaning against the wall opposite the locker room door, her bag on the floor as she scrolls through her phone. When she looks up, her mismatched blue eyes widen slightly.

“Ready for this?” she asks, her rich but sultry words slightly breathless as she heaves the bag onto her shoulder.

Without thinking, I reach out and take the strap before she can fully settle it. It isn’t nearly as heavy as a full equipment bag, but it’s not exactly full of feathers either. I don’t know if it’s surprise or something else that stops her from fighting me, but she just stares, mouth slightly parted as I lift the strap up over my head and settle it across my chest.

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