Page 18 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

"Elliot, can I get a few words about the game?" I ask, my voice steady despite how anxious I am inside. He shoots me a look that could kill me. "Make it quick," he snaps.

I don't flinch. "What do you think went wrong out there tonight?"

"Everything," he growls. "We couldn't get it together. Simple as that."

"Do you think the loss falls more on the defense or the offense?" I press on, knowing I am pushing my luck.

"It falls on all of us," he says through gritted teeth. "We're a team. We win together, we lose together."

I nod, sensing his patience is wearing thin. "What do you think needs to change before the next game?”

Elliot takes a deep breath, clearly trying to control his temper. "We need to figure our shit out and play like we want to win."

I thank him for his time as he turns away without another word, heading toward the exit. I watch him go, feeling a curious mixture of pity and irritation. He is a mess, and it is affecting the whole team, but I push the thoughts of him out of my head and keep working until I have enough material.

Despite having another game in less than two days, I hear some of the team talking about hitting up a few bars after the game. I know it's their way of coping with the loss. One of the guys from the Red Wolves even invites me out to meet them, but I politely decline. I doubt that would go over well. Elliot already has a reputation for partying hard when things are going well. I can only imagine how much worse it will be when things go south like this. I can imagine him at the bar, knocking back shots, trying to drown his frustrations in alcohol. Probably taking some girl home with him. No thank you, I don't need to see that. It’s probably safer for me to steer clear.

I pack up my stuff and head back to my hotel room. My brain is running wild, unable to get my thoughts off of Elliot. His anger, his shark-like eyes, the way he looked at me with such hatred—it all swirls in my mind. And the more I thinkabout it, the more pissed off I get. My phone alert breaks my concentration as I get a text from my camera guy, inviting me to go out with them to meet up with the Arizona guys.

You know what, maybe I should play with fire after all and give Elliot a piece of my mind. I text him back quickly that I'm in and get changed, throwing on a pair of tight jeans, a cropped turtleneck, and thigh-high black boots. We are in New Jersey in January, after all. I need to stay warm but also look hot. I pull my on-air curls into a high pony and head down to the lobby to meet my coworkers.

News of Elliot's wild night out spreads quickly as my phone buzzes incessantly with alerts even before our car arrives. Rumors of him getting into fights and causing a scene are already circulating. I groan inwardly, dreading the potential fallout. Maybe I shouldn’t do this? Running into him again could be a disaster. The tension between us is already too much to handle, but adding alcohol to the mix is a recipe for disaster. As our car picks us up and we make our way to the bar, I keep quiet, trying to focus on anything but the impending confrontation. The prospect of facing him tonight is enough to make my stomach churn.

I linger at the entrance of the bar, taking in the tense atmosphere. The players are on edge, snapping back at any Reapers fan that comes their way. The frustration is evident upon entering the room. Ford spots me and comes over to greet me, offering a small sense of welcoming energy amidst the chaos. Despite my nerves, I know I need to talk to Elliot. He has to get his head out of his ass and stop taking his self-destruction out on me. This cycle of anger and resentment is dragging both of us down, and it is time to confront it head-on.

Ford leads me to a table in the back where Elliot is seated with a few of the other guys. His sharp, angry eyes follow me as I approach. He looks worse than he did earlier. Is his eye swollen? Apparently, the reports were true, he is in a fighting mood. Once I get to the table, instead of sitting down by Ford, I stay standing a few feet away.

"Elliot," I say, trying to sound as non-confrontational as possible. "Do you mind if I talk to you for a minute?"

He stands quickly but makes no move forward, his expression turning murderous. "What do you want now?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Just get over yourself for a second," I say, stepping closer. "I have a few things to say, and you are going to listen."

He laughs bitterly. "Fine." He stalks past me and down the hallway. I follow him into the darkness, my heart pounding in my chest. The dim lighting and the muffled sounds of the bar create an eerie atmosphere, making the tension between us even more palpable. He stops halfway down the corridor, turns, and leans against the wall, waiting for me.

"This is not exactly what I meant when I asked for a private conversation," I say, my hand gesturing toward the men's restroom sign above us.

His eyes narrow at me as he snaps, "Vous me tuez, Anatife." The irritation in his tone is unmistakable as he opens the door to the bathroom, peeking inside before pushing me into the bathroom and following behind me, locking the door after it shuts.

The sudden change in setting is disorienting. "What the hell is your problem?" I demand, crossing my arms over my chest as I face him.

"My problem?" he retorts, his voice rising. "You're the one who can't seem to leave me alone, always pushing and prodding."

"I'm sick of this," I say, letting my frustration run wild. "You hate me, you take all your anger out on me, and you blame me for your self-destruction. It's not fair."

His expression hardens. "Oh, really? You think you know what it's like for me?"

I step closer, refusing to back down. "Yes, I messed up those first few interviews, but you need to get over yourself. Your losing streak, your anger issues—those are on you, not me."

His eyes flash with anger. There is something else there, too, something that makes my insides quiver in the best possible way. "You think it's that simple?" he growls, towering over me. "You have no idea what kind of pressure I'm under."

I stand my ground, my heart racing. "Maybe not, but I know that blaming me isn't productive!"

He runs a hand through his hair, exasperation clear on his face. "You think I want to be like this? You think I enjoy not being able to focus? To constantly be distracted. For every fucking thing to make me think about you. Do you think I like that?"

For a moment, I'm stunned, stuck in a silent standoff, our breaths coming in short, heated bursts. The space between us crackles with a volatile mix of anger and something far moredangerous. Without warning, Elliot grabs my arms, pulling me close.

"You think you can just tell me to get over myself, and that will just fix everything? That I'll get back to being able to play hockey. That I won't constantly remember those fucking noises you make when you come," he hisses, his face inches from mine.

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