Page 2 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

Starting to get a little annoyed, I get a little snappy before I can rein it in. “Rachel, I’ve got this. I’ve been watching you and taking notes. I know the routine inside and out.” Whatever I said must have been funny because it made Rachel chuckle.

“That’s what you might think now, but you will thank me later,” she says.

Going over this with Rachel is like stepping into an alternate universe. I can talk circles around most people, so it’s kind of comical that everyone is so concerned about my abilities they think that I need her guidance. She drones on about what to expect when we travel this week for the game between the Pittsburgh Predators and Vancouver Wolverines. Honestly, I could write a book on it myself. Travel schedules, pregame interviews, postgame wrap-ups—none of this is rocket science. While Rachel rattles off her checklist, I nod politely, all the whilementally rearranging my own much more efficient plan. After all, I'm not here to just follow in someone else’s footsteps; I'm here to redefine the role. But sure, Rachel, tell me more about how the sun sets in the west and how to breathe air—truly groundbreaking stuff.

Rachel, bless her seasoned heart, thinks she is enlightening me with her so-called “expertise.” She takes me through the ropes, from pregame preparations to live commentary techniques, as if I haven’t already mastered the basics in my sleep. We review game footage, and she yammers on about strategies for effective commentary, pointing out the obvious like it is some secret sauce. Then comes the grand introduction to the production team, where Rachel emphasizes the importance of teamwork while traveling. Teamwork—how original. I can run circles around these guys with my hands tied behind my back, but I let her have her moment. I smile and nod, pretending to absorb her wisdom, all the while planning how I’ll revolutionize this whole operation once she is out of the picture.

Packing my bags for my first road trip is an exercise in perfection, naturally. The thrill of a new adventure is undeniable, even if it is a little nerve-wracking—though I’d never admit that to anyone. I planned my itinerary down to the minute, ensuring I have all my equipment and notes. Not that I need a detailed list. It’s more for the production team’s sake so they can try to keep up. I triple-check everything, from my perfectly pressed outfits to my top-of-the-line tech gear, making sure it is all in pristine condition. After all, I’m not just going to cover a game; I’m going to set a new standard. Heaven forbid anyone thinks I'm not absolutely on top of my game.

The flight to Pittsburgh was uneventful. It gave me time to mentally prepare, hype myself up, and then bring myself backdown to neutral. I arrive at the rink early, which is my way of showing everyone I’m serious about this. I soak in the new experience, the crisp chill of the ice, the hum of anticipation in the air. Mentally, I’m already a step ahead, visualizing every moment of the evening. Rachel is there, of course, guiding me through the pregame procedures as if I haven’t already memorized them. Interviewing players and coaches is part of the routine, and I follow along, pretending to absorb her ‘wisdom,’ biding my time until I’m running the show.

When it is time for my first interview, I’m ready. The star player swaggers up, all charm and confidence. I nail my questions, of course, effortlessly blending incisiveness with wit. But despite my flawless performance, I feel the sting of being overshadowed by his star power. The cameras and the audience are more interested in his every smirk and nod than in my deep-diving questions. I try to draw out more engaging responses, but it’s like pulling teeth. Making sports commentary compelling is turning out to be more challenging than I anticipated. Who knew these athletes could be... all flash and no substance? Still, I’m determined to shine, no matter how much I have to drag these players into giving me something worth broadcasting.

My meticulous nature, which I consider one of my greatest assets, leads me to prepare exhaustive notes while analyzing the structure of game interviews. I delve into every statistic, every player’s background, and every possible angle to ensure my commentary is not just good, but exceptional. While others might settle for mediocrity, I refuse to let anything slip through the cracks. My work is a comprehensive masterpiece, if I do say so myself, designed to provide unparalleled insight to elevate the broadcast to new heights.

Despite my thoroughness, it becomes painfully clear that my contributions are overlooked or unappreciated by the higher-ups. I’m willing to pour hours into crafting the perfect narrative, but if my hard work is not going to be seen or even be given a passing mention, is it even worth it? When I make broadcast suggestions before we start filming and they are ignored, what is the point? My detailed notes, the ones that were the backbone of my previous jobs, seem unimportant. My personality drives me to excel, but now I feel the bitter sting of being underappreciated. I’m furious! How can they not see the value I bring? My hard work and dedication deserves recognition, not to be drowned out by the droning voices of those who can’t hold a candle to my level of preparation. It’s infuriating, but I’m not about to let it stop me. They’ll see my worth soon enough—whether they want to or not.

Debating whether to push through the constant challenges or consider other opportunities where my talents might be better recognized is a recurring thought that gnaws at me throughout the game. I know I have the skills and the drive, but the lack of appreciation is infuriating.

Rachel, on the brink of her leave, is who keeps me from making a change. We sit across from each other at a dimly lit bar in Pittsburgh, nursing our drinks after the game and a long day of filming the coverage. I swirl my cocktail around, watching the ice clink against the glass, trying to drown out the unrest that is growing inside me.

Rachel looks over a slightly less exciting non-alcoholic drink, sensing my unease. "You seem distracted," she says, raising an eyebrow. "What's going on?"

I sigh, leaning back on my stool. "I don’t know if this is where I’m supposed to be," I admit. "I feel like I’m wasting my time, like maybe I should just give up and find a new job."

Rachel gives me a once over. "I get it," she begins, her tone surprisingly gentle. "But you’re forgetting that your success in this field will take time. And giving up when it gets hard isn’t going to make what you do next feel any better. No one gets it right on the first try. I’ve been exactly where you are."

I look at her, intrigued. "Really? You’re telling me that you didn’t always have it together."

She laughs, shaking her head. "Oh, no. I struggled a lot in the beginning. It’s practically a right of passage. I felt like I didn’t belong, that I was a fraud. But I kept at it. I learned from my mistakes, and eventually, I found my way. You will too. You just have to give yourself some time."

Her words are unexpectedly comforting. "I guess I’m just impatient," I say, smiling a little.

Rachel smiles back. "Impatience isn’t a bad thing, Ziggy. You’ve got talent, and you’ve got drive. Just because it's not where you expected to be doesn’t mean that you don’t belong here."

Fine, I’ll give it my all. And just like that, she begrudgingly inspires me to stay the course. With renewed determination, I decide to prove my worth. Using every skill I have in my possession, I seek out new ways to shine in my role, setting ambitious goals for getting noticed for my presence and finding unique angles for my reports. I’m exhausted but still full of renewed purpose. I’m ready for the next game, eager to tacklethe challenges head-on and finally make my mark in the world of sports commentary. They haven’t seen anything yet.

Chapter 4

I jolt awake as the morning sun pierces through the blinds of my house. It feels good to be back in Arizona. This space is a stark contrast to the biting cold I’m used to back in Montreal. It’s absurd waking up to this relentless heat, even in December. It’s still better than scraping ice off my car in the great white north, though. I slept in this morning, a much needed break after a late night. I might work hard and push myself to a certain standard of excellence, but, oh buddy, I play even harder. Going into a stretch of two days off, the very first thing I did was go out, get wrecked, and rage hard.

Now, in the harsh morning heat, I roll out of bed, feeling the sun already settling in my bones, and lace up my runners. Stepping outside, the dry air hits me like a furnace. Even hungover, I can’t help but revel in it. No frostbite, no snow drifts—just a clear, open road. As I jog through the neighborhood, each breath of desert life burns as I inhale. It’s a pain I’m used to. This is a feeling I can work with and build from. I find myselfgrinning like an idiot. Who knew this Canadian boy would be such a sucker for the scorched earth of Arizona?

I pound the pavement on my usual route, nodding at the other locals braving the heat. Some runners, some cyclists, all of us out here getting it done. I finish my loop, sweat pouring off me like a waterfall, and head back home. If I don't eat soon, I might lose my damned mind. It’s beyond time to refuel with my favorite off-day breakfast. Protein pancakes, fried eggs, and a handful of extra crispy bacon. Oh, and coffee—an absolute vat of it. I might have my very strict rituals that I keep to every day, but coffee isn’t one of them. Since I don’t have a game today, it’s totally fine to be zooted out of my mind on caffeine as long as I stay hydrated. Hydration equals success out here in the desert. Got to keep the muscles fed and the mind sharp.

As I sit on my porch, chugging water to counteract the desert heat, I notice that as painful as even the September heat may be, it’s wildly different from Canada. Back home, everyone’s bundled up and bracing against the cold, while here, people are in shorts year-round, always ready to soak up the sun. Everyone seems to have a much more laid-back vibe, so different from the no-nonsense Canadian grit. But the biggest difference? In Canada, you can’t throw a rock without hitting someone who plays hockey. The team I came from was nothing but locals looking to get called up. Not here. Our team is like a wide variety of dudes, with players from every corner of the world, each bringing their own wild personalities to the rink. It’s a co-mingling of cultures and personalities, and I love it. I treat all my boys like my brothers from back home—a habit that I’ll never break. It doesn’t matter if they’re from Sweden, Russia, or the U.S.—everyone’s a “Buddy” in my book. It’s that little piece of home I carry with me, no matter how far I am from it.

I roll into the local rink, my mind already buzzing with the need to sharpen my skills even on an off day. Living the life of a rink rat doesn’t bother me. I’m not the only one. By the time I get there, four of my boys are already there practicing. All this time we spend preparing will make a difference in the long run. No matter how I feel, the ice calls to me, and I can never resist. With my boys, I’m just Elliot, the guy who chats and jokes with teammates, building us up as a team. But the second I start protecting the net, I transform. Friendliness fades, replaced by an almost feral intensity. I become an unhinged beast, laser-focused on defending my territory. I maintain that mentality the entire time we practice and for the length of three periods and two intermissions. It never fails. It's second nature, but always after practice, I slip back into my easygoing self.

The few guys that were there for practice clean up and wehead out to grab lunch at a low-key burger joint. Over burgers and beers, we dissect the upcoming game and the team we are facing. Taking a huge bite of my burger before bringing it up, I ask, “Eh, boys, we’ve got the Cyclones coming up this Sunday. What’s the game plan, eh? Besides me standing on my head, obviously.”

My boy Ford, our current Captain, laughs, “You mean like you did last game? Gotta say those saves were unreal. I don’t know if that will be enough. Their offense is no joke. We need to be ready for those quick transitions.”

Oren nods his head. “Their wingers are fast as hell. We need to keep them on the boards and cut off their passing lanes. Defense needs to be tight, no room for them to maneuver.”

I interject, “Exactly, and I’ll be back there, ready to shut them down. But I need you guys to keep those rebounds out of their reach. Can’t have them getting second chances, eh?”

“You got it. And we just need to put some pressure on their goal. He’s been hot, but everyone has a breaking point. We just gotta find his.” Vlad smirks at me.

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