Page 66 of Crossing the Top Line

“Coach McQueen got us motivated, and I think it showed in the second, and into the third,” I reply, a perfectly acceptable non-answer.

“Did anyone on the bench ask for a goalie change after the fourth goal Boucher let in?” Mark Henderson interjects, practically elbowing a young sports blogger in the face as he pushes his way to the front of the pack.

I give Henderson a confused look, brow wrinkling for a moment before I catch myself and wipe the expression away. “That’s not our call, you know. Coach believed Gaber could get the job done, and he was right. The Preds offense is just really good and, you know, sometimes it takes a minute to figure out their game.”

Mark’s face twists, half annoyed, half skeptical, and I keep my attention on him, even as I answer another question about how things are going with me, Oli, and Eli. I answer honestly, that I don’t know if I’ve ever meshed with a pair of guys like this before in my career, and it’s clearly paying off considering we got goal/assist points on every score tonight.

“How long do you think this hot streak is going to last?” Mark asks, a slight edge to his voice that I’m not sure I like.

Movement to my left catches my eye, and a quick glance out of the corner reveals Tori edging closer, a stern frown on her face and her arms crossed over her chest. But I don’t get more than that as I return my gaze to Mark, taking a brief pause to consider how to answer.

“I don’t know if I’d call this a hot streak, but I think it’ll last as long as we keep playing together as a team and implementing what the coaching staff has taught us,” I say, choosing my words with care.

“You won’t be able to come back from a five-goal lead every time,” Mark snaps, speaking before I’ve even finished my sentence.

I blink at him a few times, but he stares me down. It’s a weird feeling, being on the receiving end of someone looking down their nose at me despite being several inches shorter than me. None of the other reporters move, or even seem to breathe as they watch and wait, microphones and cameras at the ready.

Tori steps up to my side at that moment, her polite smile dimmed slightly by the coldness in her mismatched blue eyes. “If you’re just going to make statements, Mr. Henderson, then we need to move—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, sweetheart. The adults are talking,” Mark sneers, cutting across her.

“Hey, what the hell, dude,” I blurt, taking a half step toward him as my hands drop to my sides and close into fists.

“We’re done here. Have a good—”

“We’ll be done when he answers my question. Not when you decide. Why don’t you stick to twittering or whatever it is they allegedly pay you to do.” Mark’s voice is louder now, practically shouting over Tori.

I glance around at the rest of the journalists, most of whom have tucked their microphones and recorders away. I pause as I glance at the camera pointed at me, jaw clenching as I see that the red recording light is off. Good.

“You didn’t ask aquestion. You made a rude statement, and then proceeded to insult a member of the team staff. So, no, I don’t owe you any sort of response to that sort of behavior, and neither does Tori,” I grit out, straightening to my full height.

Mark doesn’t back down, a pathetic little alpha growl rumbling in his chest. Cute that he thinks he can challenge me. If we didn’t have a room full of witnesses, I’d escort him from Fuck Around Street onto Find Out Avenue.

“You owe the fans—”

I snarl, a growl of my own spilling out as I glare down at the aging relic in front of me. “Me and my teammates owe the fans our best performances, and we do that every night. We don’t oweyouanything. Consider this the last time we speak until you publicly apologize to me, the organization, and Tori for your behavior.”

I turn on my heel and find Tori staring up at me with some combination of shock and appreciation, but I don’t dwell. She doesn’t fight me as I put a hand near the small of her back, escorting her in front of me as we leave the press and their bullshit behind. It’s only once we’re around the corner and heading back toward the locker room that she stops, spinning so fast that the ends of her hair whip against my chest.

“What were you thinking?” she hisses, eyes wide as she looks up at me.

“How long has he been speaking to you like that?” I ask, ignoring her question as I rock my weight back onto one foot and cross my arms over my chest.

“That doesn’t matter. Do you know what you’ve just done? What sort of shit pile you’ve thrown me and my team into?” She’s speaking fast, eyes darting around as if she expects any one of those leeches to jump out from a hidden wall panel and overhear us.

“I’ll take the fall for this. But I really want you to answer my question, Tori,” I answer, keeping my tone calm and non-judgmental.

Tori lets out a frustrated sigh, running her hands through her hair and pulling slightly as she shifts from one high-heeled foot to the other. But I hold firm, letting my silence do the work for me. My mother would use this tactic with me all the time growing up, because people naturally want to fill awkward silence with talk.

“Ever since I joined the team as an intern. He’s an asshole. But that doesn’t matter—”

A sharp growl slips out before I can catch it, cutting her off mid-sentence. She takes a half step back, wrapping her arms around her stomach as her shoulders slump forward slightly. Defensive, protective posture. I swallow my growl and take a deep breath, leashing my anger and desire to go back and deck the bastard.

“It ends now. You won’t be disrespected like that, not with how much you do for us,” I say at last.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? How are you going to fix his shitty attitude?” she demands.

“I told him I’m not going to give him an interview until he apologizes, and I mean it. If he’s in the scrum, then I’m not getting in front of the camera. I’ll talk to anyone else, but I’m not going to let this shit slide, Tori. And neither should you,” I state, not answering the question per se, but it’s the best I’ve got at the moment.

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