Page 6 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

“Focus up, Elliot! You’ve got this, buddy. Just shake it off.” Oren’s words are meant to steady me, but the anger is bubbling over.

“Keep your head in the game, E! We need you out here!” Vlad shouts. I know they are right, but the doubt is creeping in.

“Ignore those clowns, man. You’re the best goalie in the league. Just play your game!” Vlad says as he slides by. If only it were that simple.

“Elliot, just breathe and reset. We’ve got your back out here. Let’s show them what you’re made of.” Always the Captain, Ford’s voice is calm, reassuring, but I can feel the pressure mounting. I need to shake off the taunts, the frustration, and thedoubt. I need to remember why I’m here. For the team, for the game, for the win.

The final buzzer sounds, and we’ve secured a narrow 5 to 4 victory. It’s a win, but it doesn’t feel like one. Despite my personal struggles, the team manages to pull ahead by one goal. As the adrenaline slowly subsides, my body begins to feel the effects of the intense emotions coursing through me. My heart pounds in my chest, its rapid rhythm echoing in my ears. The sweat-soaked fabric of my sweater clings uncomfortably to my skin, a reminder of the physical exertion I just endured.

I can feel the weight of every missed save. My muscles ache, a combination of the strain from making the few crucial saves I had. The frustration that gnaws at me manifests itself in the tightness of my clenched fists and the furrowed brow that creases my forehead. Every missed opportunity, every moment where I fell short, lingers in my mind, replaying like a broken record. Doubt and self-criticism swirl within me, clouding my thoughts and making it difficult to fully appreciate the victory we just achieved.

I take a deep breath, attempting to calm the racing thoughts and bring myself back to the present moment. The sound of my teammates celebrating and the echoing applause of the crowd finally registers, though they still feel distant. My teammates pat me on the back, their relief palpable, but I can’t shake my own demons gnawing at me. I know I need to do better. Deep down, I know that this win is a team effort, and my teammates understand that. They know the weight I carry as the last line of defense, and they appreciate the times I’ve come through for them. But as a perfectionist, I can’t help but hold myself to a higher standard. I strive for excellence, for flawlessness, and falling short of that ideal stings. There is oneperson to blame for this, that damn reporter with the big brown eyes and sweet ass.

I head straight to the locker room, avoiding eye contact with reporters. The last thing I need right now is to face their barrage of questions about my shaky performance. My mind is a storm of frustration and self-reproach, each step feeling heavier as I make my way down the tunnel. The roar of the crowd fades behind me, replaced by the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant chatter of my teammates. I know the press will be eager to dissect every mistake, to pry into what’s going on in my head, but I can’t deal with that right now. I just want to get out of this gear and drown out the noise. Today wasn’t my best, and the sting of it clings to me like sweat. All I can think about is how I need to regroup, refocus, and come back stronger.

The locker room is full of relief but I can’t let it in. My own frustrations are too thick to penetrate. The guys are celebrating the win, but I can see the concern in their eyes. They’re happy we pulled it off, but they know I wasn’t on my game tonight. I take my time, deliberately slow, as I peel off my gear, each piece hitting the floor with a dull thud. Stripping off my gear feels like shedding a layer of failure, mirroring the disappointment weighing down on me. My body aches, not just from the physical strain but from the weight of knowing I let everyone down. The postgame interview can wait. I’m in no rush to face the questions I know are coming. My teammates give me space, a silent acknowledgment of my need to process and regroup. As the adrenaline fades, I can feel the sting of every missed save, every moment where I fell short. Tonight was rough, but I’ll be damned if I let it happen again.

I sit on the bench, lost in my thoughts, replaying the game over and over in my mind. The cheers from the crowd outsideecho through the walls, a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere in the locker room. I can’t help but feel responsible for our close call tonight. My teammates approach me cautiously, their eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and understanding. They know how hard I worked to get to this point, the countless hours of training and sacrifice.

Oren, placing a hand on my shoulder, says, “Tough break, man. We know you gave it your all.”

“Yeah, we could see how much effort you put into preparing for this.” Vlad gives me a sympathetic look, “We all have games like this, dude.”

Ford ends their sympathy train with, “Don’t beat yourself up about it. We win as a team, and we lose as a team.”

But tonight, it wasn’t enough. I let my guard down, and it almost cost us.

I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the disappointment that threatens to consume me. This hollow victory will serve as a wake-up call, a reminder of the relentless dedication required to excel in this sport. I won’t let it break me. I won’t let it define me. Slowly, I rise from the bench, stripping the rest of my clothes. My muscles ache, and my mind buzzes with the repetitious replay of every missed save, every sloppy move. I drag myself to the showers, hoping the hot water will wash away the frustration clinging to me. The steam rises, and I let it envelop me, trying to clear my mind and reset. But the grumpy funk is stubborn, sticking to me like a second skin.

I lean my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water pummel my back, and force myself to breathe deeply. Tomorrow is a new day, and I need to shake this off, but right now, the weight of tonight’s performance is all-consuming. I know I haveto face the postgame interview. The questions will be tough, probing into my mistakes and shortcomings. But I won’t shy away from them. I will own up to my performance and use it as fuel to improve.

I step out of the shower, towel slung around my waist, and for a moment, the silence feels like a balm to my frayed nerves. The locker room is deserted, just the way I like it after a game like this. I take a deep breath, starting to feel a hint of relief, a slight lift in my mood. But then, the door flies open with a bang, shattering the peace. I turn my head toward the sudden intrusion, my heart racing and my muscles tensing. Standing in the doorway is that damned reporter, eyes wide and full of that damned unrelenting energy. My mood plummets instantly. I freeze, water dripping from my hair, my moment of solitude abruptly stolen.

“Oh, pour l'amour des Tabarnak!” I shout at her. What the hell is she doing here? My frustration boils back to the surface as I glare at her, feeling like I can’t catch a break even in the last moments of a brutal day. The towel around my waist suddenly feels inadequate, as if it can’t shield me from her.

Chapter 7

My nerves are absolutely frayed, and I can feel the pressure mounting with each interview as players exit the locker room. Each conversation is like pulling teeth—short, clipped responses, nothing particularly insightful. My questions are on point, but their lackluster answers give me very little to work with. My hands tremble slightly as I clutch my microphone, the plastic slipping out of my hand with the pressure. Sweat beads form on my forehead, threatening to trickle down and ruin my perfectly done face. My heart races, pounding against my chest like a wild animal trying to break free from its cage, but instead, I push through.

With each lackluster response from the players, my frustration compounds, fueling the irritation developing inside me. The annoyance spreads through my chest, putting my lungs in a vice grip, making it harder to breathe. Tonight is not going my way. Every second my throat feels tighter, more constricted as if my words are stuck, unable to escape. These interviews aren’t great, but they’re something, and I need to make thebest of it. My attempts grow more desperate as I mentally run through ways to salvage this mess before it gets worse.

I force a smile, but it’s strained and unnatural. It takes every ounce of self-control to maintain what little bit of composure I have left and not let the despair consume me. Embarrassment creeps into my thoughts, clouding my mind as I desperately search for ways to turn it around. Maybe I should change my approach? No, my questions are not the problem. It’s the people answering them. I mentally berate myself for not being able to salvage the situation sooner. Time feels like it’s slipping away, and I can’t afford to let this mess spiral out of control.

Taking a deep breath, I steady myself. My nerves may still be frayed, and the pressure may actually kill me, but I won’t let it ruin my broadcast. I push forward, determined to salvage this mess and make the most of what I have. Figuring it’s safe now, I head into the locker room, hoping to catch a few more players for interviews. But no, it’s just as much of a disaster as before. The locker room is a chaotic scene of scattered equipment and thrown jerseys. The air is thick with the stench of sweat and disappointment. An eerie silence hits me as I step inside. My pounding heart doesn’t help the situation as I navigate through the empty space, my steps echoing until I make eye contact with the absolute very last person I want to.

The sight of Elliot St. Germain, wearing only a towel, immediately catches my attention as I enter. There is literally nothing else I can look at except for his glistening abs. His presence is striking. He was tall this morning when I saw him, but somehow, he seems to tower over me. Elliot’s lean, muscular body is on full display for me to take in. Even his muscles have muscles. His black curly hair is tight on the sides but longer onthe crown of his head. The water from his shower weighed the curls down onto his forehead. I watch a water droplet slide down his sharp, angular features, falling onto a patch of hair on his chest. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t look away as the droplet rolls over the valley of his muscles.

His harsh voice snaps me out of my trance. “Barnacle, you have got to stop doing this.”

I gape at him, my mouth wide open. Words in my brain no longer form sentences.

“What... what do you mean?” His dark brown eyes are so dark. There is a sharp, alert, and maybe angry quality to them.

Elliot takes a fully tattooed arm and waves it around him. “Hello! There is no one here, and I’m naked.” Again, pointing out the very, very low towel around his hips. Great. I am once again staring at him. Why do I keep wondering what’s under that towel? I can’t help it. It just happens.

“I know, but…” I stammer, losing my train of thought. Beneath his absurdly thick mustache, Elliot gives me an extremely tempting smile, really highlighting his personality. Even with a charismatic smile, it still doesn’t reach his eyes, though. I see the shift on his face, the smile gone, as he hisses, “I’m serious, Barnacle. Get a grip on yourself.”

The awkwardness of the situation floods back with his words…and why the hell does he keep calling me that? Everything about him annoys me. As if this isn't already bad enough, my stress levels are now sky-high. My heart pounds in my chest as I quickly turn around. I won’t have to stop myself from looking at him if he is behind me. My mind races to find the best way to salvage what little professionalism I have left. I just need one interview from him. It doesn’t even have to be a goodinterview. I’ll settle for decent at this point, as long as it’s a one-on-one sound bite. I have to turn this around, even if the odds appear to be stacked against me. This is not how I imagined my big solo broadcast would go.

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