Page 5 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

His grin widens. “Maybe I am. But let’s see if you can keep up with me in this tank.”

I scoff, “Oh please, I can handle myself just fine, thank you.”

He shakes his head, his features an odd mix of amusement and something more intense. Standing there among the serene sea life, our conversation feels anything but peaceful.

Before turning and walking away, he departs with, “We’ll see about that.”

Back in my hotel room, I can’t shake the bizarre encounter with Elliot. The way he called me “barnacle” hit a nerve, got under my skin in a way I didn’t appreciate. Is he going to undermine me when the time comes for my interviews with him? His unpredictable nature is definitely going to be a challenge. He will keep me on my toes, I'm sure. I channelmy frustration and curiosity into fine-tuning my plan, ensuring everything will be flawless. Practicing my on-air presence in front of the mirror, I focus on projecting absolute confidence and control. No way am I going to let anyone, especially some crazy goalie, throw me off my game.

I wake up at the crack of dawn, my mind already buzzing with today’s tasks. I review my notes one last time, ensuring every detail of the day is perfect. My signature liquid eyeliner and red lip? Check. Not a flyaway in my perfectly curled hairstyle? Check. A tight black pencil skirt paired with a colorful blazer? Check. And last but not least, all my equipment is ready to go. Over a light breakfast, I try to keep my nerves in check, reminding myself that I am more than prepared for this. Arriving at the rink, I take in the pregame atmosphere, the buzz around the rink, the clatter of every moving piece coming together. From the mental preparation, a surge of determination builds. I spot Elliot among the players, his intense presence impossible to ignore. A strange mix of irritation and anticipation bubbles up inside me, making me feel like today will be anything but ordinary.

Once all the prep is complete, I adjust my blazer, holding my microphone like a shield as I navigate my way through the arena’s underbelly. Determined to get some exclusive pregame sound bites, I stride toward the locker room, my heels clicking confidently on the concrete floor. Reaching the door, I hesitate for a split second before pushing it open and stepping inside. The room falls silent. It takes only a moment to realize my mistake. My eyes widen as I take in the sight of half-dressed players, towels slung over shoulders, and the unmistakablesmell of dirty shoes heavy in the air. Oh no, the panic sets in, my professional veneer cracking, as I stand frozen in the doorway.

“What the hell?” one of the players yells, grabbing a towel to cover himself.

The room erupts into chaos, shouts of “Get out!” and, “You can’t be in here!” bouncing off the walls. My heart pounds in my chest, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. I lock eyes with Elliot, who stands out in the crowd, clearly in the middle of his game day routine. His intense gaze burns into mine. He is halfway through taping his stick, his bare torso glistening with a fine sheen of something. His eyes flash with a mix of annoyance and something else indescribable.

“Barnacle, you seriously can’t be here,” Elliot’s voice cuts through the chaos, firm and unyielding.

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Utterly paralyzed, my brain scrambles to process the scene unfolding before me. The players continue to yell, but their voices seem distant, muffled by the ringing in my ears. “Get out!” another player bellows, snapping me out of my stupor. I stumble backward, tripping over my own feet as I flee the locker room, the door slamming shut behind me.

Outside, I lean against the wall, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The sting of embarrassment burns throughout my entire body, but I fight back the urge to cry.

I whip my head to my cameraman, “Why didn’t you stop me?”

He looks me over and laughs, “You should’ve known better. Now you won’t make that mistake twice.”

I had to make a mark, to show everyone how capable I am. Instead, I just made my mark by looking like a colossal fool. Oh my god, I’m being taught a lesson. Taking a deep breath, I compose myself, adjusting my blazer. There is no time for self-pity. I have to regroup and refocus. But the image of Elliot’s piercing eyes and the chaos I caused will be hard to shake off.

Chapter 6

My heart races, and my palms are clammy as I finish my pregame routine, but the uneasy feeling left over from that chaotic interaction with the beautifully irritating reporter lingers. The residual manifests itself as a knot in my stomach, making it hard to focus on anything else. Something about the interaction left me feeling completely off balance. I will literally talk to anyone. Normally, I have a knack for brushing off interactions like this. I can easily come up with witty comebacks or give someone a nickname without a second thought. But this time was different. Calling the reporter a barnacle felt more personal, more cutting than it should have. It was like I had struck a nerve, even though I couldn’t pinpoint why.

I find myself fixating on that single word, replaying it over and over again. I can’t shake it. It’s as if I opened a Pandora’s box within me, and now I can’t close it. Why is this bothering me so much? It’s frustrating, knowing that I have the ability to move on from this, to let it slide off me like water off a duck’sback. Yet, here I am, stuck in this mental loop, fixating on a simple nickname. As I continue with my routine, I try to distract myself, focusing on the physical aspects of my preparation. I focus on stretching my muscles, feeling the tension ease slightly as I move through each exercise. The physical exertion helps to ground myself and regain my balance. I know that I have to confront this uneasiness head-on. I’m not in my usual form. I’m off, and it infuriates me. The rage burns, driving me harder, but the distraction is too much to shake.

A few easy shots manage to get past me, ones I’d normally block without a second thought. I can see the disappointment in my teammates’ eyes, and feel the tension rising on the bench. The crowd’s roar intensifies, echoing through the rink. Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes. The other team attacks with relentless force, their shots thundering toward me like cannonballs. My gloved hand twitches, but I can’t seem to snatch the puck out of midair anymore. It slips past me, a cruel taunt hitting the back of the net. My performance is shaky, and I feel it with every slip of the puck.

I’m pretty sure one of my own just called me a sieve… The tension is so intense I can feel it all the way from the bench, suffocating me in my net. I clench my fists, determined to turn the tide.

My every move causes my skates to carve into the ice, propelling me toward regaining my composure and focus. The opposing players dart toward me, hungry for another goal. But I stand tall, not giving up without a fight. The puck bounces off the blade of their sticks. My reflexes ignite, lightning coursing through my veins. I lunge, desperation fueling my every muscle. The sound of something hard hitting metal rings out as the puck ricochets off the post. Cheers erupt from the stands asadrenaline surges, but they aren’t loud enough to drown out doubts.

As the other team forward charged toward me again, my heart pounds in my chest. I lunge, desperately trying to block their shot, but my movements are clumsy, my timing off. The puck whizzes past me, mocking my feeble attempt. The frustration gnaws at me, making it even harder to concentrate. Any momentum that I make seems to be instantly lost as soon as the next puck comes flying my way.

The crowd groans in disappointment, their frustrated faces etched in my mind. I grit my teeth, determined to prove myself. The team’s defense rallies, blocking shots and hustling harder than ever to keep the game close, but it is clear to everyone that I’m not in my usual form. I push harder, faster, my legs burning with the effort. But each time the puck comes my way, I feel an unknown sense of dread. The harder I try to regain my focus, the more unsteady I feel, and the mounting frustration only makes things worse. My gloves feel heavy, my skates sluggish.

The frustration boils within me, a raging inferno threatening to consume me. Sweat pours down my face, blurring my vision. I wipe it away with a gloved hand, only to find the dampness clinging to me like a weight, dragging me even further down. My teammates fight valiantly, their cheers and shouts echoing in my ears. But their achievements only amplify my own shortcomings. The pressure mounts, suffocating me, making it impossible to breathe.

I glide across the ice. The puck approaches, its presence taunting me. I reach out, my gloved hand closing around it, but my grip falters, and it slips through my fingers. Doubt consumes me, whispering in my ear, telling me I’m not good enough. ButI refuse to listen. I dig deep, finding a flicker of determination buried within.

I can hear the opposing players, each chirp slicing through my concentration like a hot knife.

“Hey, St. Germain, you forget how to play goalie or what? That net looks awfully big today, doesn’t it?” Their laughter echoes in my ears, mocking my every move.

“Nice save, St. Germain! Oh wait, you missed that one too!”

I grit my teeth, trying to block them out, but the frustration only grows.

“Maybe you should take up figure skating instead. At least then you wouldn’t have to stop any pucks!” Another jab, another shot to my already fragile focus and, I’ll admit, my ego. But amidst the chirping, my teammates’ voices try to cut through the noise.

---