Page 17 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

Days later, and Ziggy is still in my head, wreaking havoc on my pregame routine. Every time I try to focus, her image flashes before my eyes, distracting me and pulling me away from what really matters. The rituals that once brought me clarity and calm now feel empty and meaningless. I go through the motions—stretching, visualizing plays, taping my stick—but my mind is elsewhere, an infuriating mix of thoughts about her. Her challenging glare, her fiery words, the way her body felt pressed against mine. It is all-consuming, and it's throwing me off my game in the worst way possible. I can feel my performance slipping, and I hate it. I need to find a way to get her out of my head before it costs me everything.

It happened again. I cost the team another win. As the final buzzer sounds through the arena, I feel the crushing weight of yet another loss settle on my shoulders. I was off all night—my reflexes slow, my focus scattered. Every time the puck came my way, I hesitated, my mind drifting back where it didn’t belong. Her voice, her touch, her damn presence haunted me, and it ruined my game. The disappointment in my teammates’ eyes is like a dagger to the heart. They don't say anything, but I can feel their frustration. This is on me, and I know it. Ziggy is in my head, and I have no idea how to get her out.

Game after game, week after week, I find myself on the losing end, and it is driving me insane. Each game feelslike a cruel joke, my once-unshakeable confidence crumbling with every missed save and every goal scored against me. My teammates are supportive, but I can see the frustration in their eyes, the silent questions about what has happened to their star goalie. The record I was so close to breaking now seems like a distant dream, slipping further away with each defeat. The losing streak isn't just affecting my stats; it’s unraveling everything I have worked so hard to achieve.

My body feels the weight of each loss, the toll of the mounting pressure evident in my aching muscles and exhausted bones. The once exhilarating rush of adrenaline before a game now transforms into a knot of anxiety that twists in my stomach. Sleep is elusive as my mind replays every mistake and missed opportunity, tormenting me in the darkness. The spark that once ignited my love for the game now flickers dimly as doubts creep in, whispering that maybe I am not cut out for this anymore. The relentless pressure to perform, to live up to the expectations I have set for myself, threaten to suffocate the passion that has driven me for so long.

Even drowning in chaos and despair, a flicker of determination still burns within me. I refuse to let this losing streak define me, to accept defeat as my ultimate destiny. I know I have to confront the demons that plague my mind, to find a way to regain my focus and rediscover the internal confidence that once propelled me to greatness.

It is time to silence Ziggy’s haunting occupancy of my brain and break free from the suffocating grip of this losing streak. With renewed determination, I step onto the ice, ready to reclaim my ability to be the star goalie, to rewrite the narrative that has threatened to unravel everything I’ve worked so hard toachieve. The battle is far from over, but I am ready to fight, to reclaim my place in the game and in my own mind.

Since that night, I’ve been in a downward spiral and have lost every single one of the games I've played. My performance is a joke, and I know exactly why. Ziggy is in my head, consuming my thoughts at the worst possible moments. It's her face I see, her voice I hear, her body I imagine. It pisses me the fuck off. I haven’t seen her since our encounter in the hallway. Yet, somehow, I am still full of anger and desire twisted together. All I can think about is bending her over and taking out every ounce of my frustration on her.

Every time I touch myself, it’s her I think about, and I hate myself for it. I know I shouldn’t—she is the enemy, the reason for my downfall. Yet, she lives rent free in my mind. Her intoxicating presence is seared into my brain. It is ruining me. The intensity of how much I want her is maddening, making it impossible to focus on anything else. Each loss on the ice only fuels my self-loathing, pushing me further into a destructive cycle. Worst of all, I don't know how to break free from her hold.

The guys have noticed my change in behavior, but I can't bring myself to tell them the real reason. How can I admit that some woman I barely know and kinda hate, who has caused my downfall, is also the one I can't stop fantasizing about? I need to get a grip. I have to figure out a way to get Ziggy out of my system, or I'm going to lose everything I’ve worked so hard for.

After our latest loss, the captain corners me in the locker room, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. “Elliot, what the hell is going on with you?” Ford demands, his voice low but firm. “You’ve been off your game for weeks. This isn’t like you.”

I force a shrug, avoiding his piercing gaze. “Just a rough patch, that’s all,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant.

He isn’t buying it. “Bullshit. We’re a team, and we need you at your best. If something’s going on, you need to talk about it.”

I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to spill everything about Ziggy and the unrest she has caused in my head. “I’m fine,” I insist, my voice sounding hollow even to myself. “I’ll get it together.”

Ford stares at me for a long moment before shaking his head and walking away, leaving me alone with my tangled thoughts and the weight of my lies.

Left alone in the wake of his departure, my thoughts become an unconvincing web of excuses, entangling me further. Lying to myself and my captain presses heavily on my conscience, suffocating any semblance of peace I have left. How have I allowed myself to get to this point? With each passing moment, the gravity of my actions seems to grow, threatening to consume me entirely. The truth, once so clear in my mind, now feels distant and unattainable.

As I stand here, engulfed in the silence of my own guilt, I know that I can't continue down this path. My own fucked up sense of self-loathing is unbearable, suffocating any chance of redemption. Each loss feels like a nail in the coffin of my career, each game a reminder of my spiraling downfall. It's time to gather my courage, untangle the mess I have created, and confront the truth, no matter the consequences. Ziggy has wormed her way into my mind, and it is destroying me from the inside out. I can't let this obsession I don’t even want ruin everything I’ve worked for. I have to face it head-on, confrontZiggy, and find a way to reclaim my focus and my game. It’s time to stop hiding and start fighting for my sanity and my career.

Chapter 17

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind for me. I’ve been brushing up on my skills, traveling from city to city, covering teams that are on a hot streak, reporting on their triumphs and challenges, and trying to wrap my head around what it means to be able to play hockey, even though it still feels like a foreign language sometimes. Unfortunately, or maybe, fortunately, none of those teams have been the Phoenix Red Wolves until now. Tonight, the New Jersey Reapers, currently at the top of their game, are hosting Arizona at home. It is a high-stakes game, and with how Elliot and the team have been playing, it doesn't look good.

Elliot has been lingering in the back of my mind since I last saw him. I can't shake him or the way his eyes bore into me when he looked at me. The thought of it sets me on fire while simultaneously chilling me to the core. Every time his name crosses my thoughts, a surge of heat rushes up my neck, flushing my cheeks with a rosy hue. The memory of his eyes, dark andmagnetic, haunt me, tugging at the edges of my consciousness like an invisible thread.

So, I find myself caught in a constant battle between the scorching flames of desire and the bone-chilling fear of seeing him again. Days have turned into weeks, and the longer it's been without seeing him, the easier it has gotten. I keep myself busy, but the thought of Elliot still lingers, refusing to fade away. Based on Elliot's reaction the last time I saw him, I can only assume that he doesn't want to see me as much as I don't want to see him. I want to hate him, and I'm pretty sure I do hate him. But there is this little ember of lust for him deep within me that won't go away.

My day has been relatively quiet since getting to New Jersey. I know that will change sooner rather than later. Any minute now, I will have to encounter Elliot, but until then, I focus my time on the Reapers. I stretch out my interviews to delay the inevitable. I stand in the Reapers' locker room, microphone in hand, ready to interview their head coach, Paul Richards. From my research, he is a seasoned veteran with a keen eye for strategy and a knack for turning struggling teams into contenders. He has been with the team for a few years, and this year seems to be theirs.

"Coach Richards," I begin, "tonight's game against the Red Wolves is highly anticipated. What do you think are the key factors to securing a victory?"

He gives a thoughtful nod, his eyes sharp with focus. "It's all about maintaining our defensive strategy and capitalizing on our scoring opportunities. The Red Wolves have a strong offensive line, but their defense has been shaky. We'll be looking to exploit those gaps while keeping their top scorers in check.Our power plays need to be on point, and we can't afford any unnecessary penalties."

I follow up, "And what about their goalie, Elliot St. Germain? He's been struggling lately. How do you plan to take advantage of that?"

Coach Richards smiles slightly. "We'll be putting pressure on him early, testing his confidence. If we can rattle him, it could open up the game for us."

My interviews are going so well. It’s a nice change, and I feel a surge of satisfaction as we wrap up. Yet, even with the success of my interviews, there is a sense of unease about speaking against a certain goalie bubbling underneath my consciousness.

By design, I run out of time before the game to interview any of the Red Wolves players. Now we are only five minutes into the first period, and Elliot is playing like shit. There is no way to sugarcoat it. As I watch from my spot in the press box, it is clear that tonight's game is going to be a disaster. I might live to regret not getting their interviews over with before the game. The entire team is struggling on all fronts, but Elliot St. Germain is having one of the worst performances I have ever seen. According to someone beside me, it is the worst of his career. He keeps missing saves he should've made in his sleep. His reactions are sluggish, and his confidence seems to have not gotten on the plane to New Jersey.

The Arizona fans, usually a roaring wave of support no matter where they are, have turned tense and frustrated. Every time a puck slips past Elliot, the groans and sighs from the fans grow louder. It's not all his fault—the defense is practically non-existent, and the offense isn't capitalizing on the fewopportunities they manage to create. But as the goalie, Elliot is the last line of defense, and tonight he is failing. The game drags on painfully, without a single goal. The final nail in the coffin comes with an incredible shot from the Reapers that sails right past Elliot's glove. I watch as his shoulders slump as he skates off the ice. Even from the press box, I can feel the weight of another loss pressing down on him.

As much as I don’t want to, I know I have to face him. It's my job to get his comments postgame. On my way down the hallway toward the locker room, the team's PR manager warns me about Elliot's foul mood. How much worse can it be, comparatively speaking? I wait outside the locker room, watching the players file out, their faces grim and tired. I get clips from anyone willing to talk to me. Thankfully, the Captain, Ford, treats me with kindness, understanding that this is not only the worst part of their job but also mine. Nothing about having to rehash a series of mistakes is easy for the players or for me. The more games I've covered, the better I've come to understand this.

Elliot emerges next, his hair still damp from the shower and his entire body vibrating with anger. His jaw clenches as his dark eyes meet mine with fury. I brace myself as I approach him.

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