Page 101 of Snap Shot

“It's like babysitting a fucking toddler.”

His ridiculous display catches the attention of the other guys, distracting them from practice. The captain yells for everyone to cut it out.

I smack his arm with the back of my hand. “It's only the first day back on the ice. They're pumped. Let 'em have this.”

“Fine. Is offering to make one of those ridiculous dance videos at the end enough incentive?”

We pull our feet back to the frozen surface and head to the other end of the oval.

I salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Jaeg whistles and calls the boys over, going through the day's drill order before we end with a scrimmage. He lets Wade talk to the social media manager about what to do for today's TikTok.

Today's assignment: act out different versions of sliding on the ice. Wade calls out the poses as the social media intern records.

“Twerk!”

A surprisingly difficult thing to do in gear.

“Put those bubble butts to work, boys!”

Olsen and Szecze put on a weak performance, but enough to entertain. Derrick, Fletch, and I get some decent booty bounces in, but Wade takes it through. “Don't get mad, get deep.” He sticks his tongue as he squats and twerks, doubling the speed as his ass nears the camera before swerving to the side.

“Kung Fu!”

Most of us do karate kicks and ninja jumps with kiai. Fletch gets adventurous and does the crane from Karate Kid.

“Swimming strokes!”

We mime front crawls, back, side, breast, and butterfly strokes. Wade does a doggy paddle. Which fits, considering he has the energy of a golden retriever puppy.

Jaeg and I have to catch our breath afterward for a few moments, hands on our knees. He shakes his head and squirts the remaining liquid from a stray water bottle into his mouth.

“And the fun's not over yet.” I go vertical before leading us off the ice. “We've got press, too.”

Luckily, it isn't formal. Starters, coaches, and the GM sit at the front table behind mics, the PR team flanking us on both sides in case they need to step in. Staff wears their matching branded pullovers while we lounge in hoodies and sweatpants. A dozen reporters and their cameras wait for the chatter to subside.

I space out when they start with Coach, asking about this year's strategy. Wade kicks my ankle after a minute to snap me out of it. He flips his hat backward with a crooked smile. I pull mine over my eyes, hoping to avoid attention.

A long arm rises between two shorter ones. “Gabe Finch,” she says, brushing her hair away from her shoulder and face. “Canadian Sporting News.” The brown freckles across her nose and cheeks contrast her fair skin.

Wade's jaw goes slack, eyebrows reaching halfway up his forehead. He tilts toward me to whisper. “That'sGabe Finch?” I nod. “Fuck,she's beautiful.”

Ms. Finch's face goes red in response. Cheeks inflamed. Eyes furious. The rest of us fail to silence our titters. These mics are super sensitive, and everyone fucking heard.

“Did you hear that?” Wade asks no one in particular, but stares at the equally horrified reporter.

Fletch tucks his head under the collar of his sweatshirt to hide secondhand embarrassment. I shake with laughter as Wade slaps his hands to his face, then attempts to slide under the table. I don't think I've ever seen him so embarrassed.

Olsen and Szecze guffaw while Jaeg snarls and rubs his temples. The press laughs about it for a few minutes but gets over it and moves on. Neither their questions nor our responses are unexpected. They've been rehearsed, citing hard work and improvements over the summer, and how we'll keep our heads down and focus clear for the oncoming season. No one asks about Annalise. Back by the lockers, my phone buzzes in my bag.

Gym Girl:How'd the press conference go?

Me:Got lucky.

Gym Girl:You're welcome.

Me:You did that? How?

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