Page 53 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

The frenzy surrounding Elliot is relentless. Every move he makes, every word said, is scrutinized and dissected by fans and journalists alike. Elliot opened the door to his personal life with the podcast, and now the world wants more. It seems like no matter where he goes or what he does, regardless of who he is with, he’s always being watched, analyzed, and speculated about. Every time we are seen together, it is and has to be as a player and press. Nothing more. The pressure to maintain such strict professionalism while navigating our personal, albeitcomplicated, relationship is becoming overwhelming. And the constant intrusion is taking its toll on Elliot and, by proxy, on me.

ACN has always instructed all of us to keep our coverage about the sport, not the player. But with how popular Elliot is in the media, it makes my job increasingly more difficult. As a reporter covering the Red Wolves, maintaining professionalism is imperative. Part of being the best version of a professional that I can be is by giving the people what they want. Right now, that is anything and everything that they can get their hands on regarding Elliot St. Germain and his personal life.

It's hard to maintain a line of division when I have a better understanding of the man in front of the goal than the rest of the world. The constant balancing act of delivering a story the fans crave while keeping my personal feelings at bay is exhausting, and every interaction with Elliot leaves me feeling more torn than anything else. So, when I can, I disassociate from the struggles and focus solely on safer subjects, like anything but Elliot.

Here I am standing rink side, camera rolling, trying to capture the electric atmosphere of Game One of the Conference Finals. The Red Wolves are on fire, outmaneuvering the Montreal Saints with a relentless offensive strategy that leaves the crowd roaring after each goal.

"Tonight, the Red Wolves are not just playing; they're dominating," I report, my voice steady despite the excitement swirling around me. "With a series of high-scoring plays, they've set the tone for what promises to be a thrilling third period." I turn slightly, gesturing toward the bench where players exchange high fives as they head back to the locker room for the second intermission. "The team's morale is sky-high, and theirperformance tonight is a testament to their preparation and heart. This isn't just a game—it's a statement."

Every morning, it’s the same routine. Wake up, check my phone, and inevitably, my feed is flooded with speculation about Elliot.Who's he dating now? Is the star goalie single?The questions are relentless, and each headline gnaws at me more than the last. It isn’t just idle curiosity; it is obsession. Invasive, exhaustive, and utterly exhausting attention. And instead of escaping it and burying my head in the sand, I have to dive headfirst into the eye of it. I am scheduled to attend the Red Wolves' practice ahead of Game Two, armed with a microphone and a mandate to pry answers from the very team caught in the center of the rumor mill. The irony isn’t lost on me.

As I am preparing for a segment on the team's recent victories, I glance at my phone to see a brand new set of notifications. A new picture of Elliot has surfaced and the people need more. News outlets, blogs, and social media are flying with speculation about the girl's identity. And it doesn’t take the internet sleuths long to figure out how to identify me to the world, Azalea Blackwell, ACN reporter. One of the article’s headlines even went so far to say, “Don’t worry ladies, she’s not the one.”

Luckily, no one has put two and two together, that I was the girl in the photo from so many weeks ago. I should be happy about that, but on the surface, it pisses me off and deep down it really just makes me sad. The only thing people see in a photo of the two of us is the star goalie with the team reporter. As if being diminished next to him as nothing but a reporter didn't cut at my self-esteem, seeing the world speculate over every model or celebrity that Elliot could be tied to definitely does. Hearing it,seeing it, speaking about it has long since become too much. The constant barrage of attention is exhausting, but I can't change it.

It's not like he’s having an easy time with this either. Everything seems to be taking a toll. He has been open and vulnerable with me about how much this affects him. But since this new series started, instead of leaning on me like he has, his attitude has shifted. Ever since the almost ‘talk’.

He has been more irritable, snapping at teammates and coaches, his usual charm replaced with a mean edge. His attitude doesn’t make it any easier to maintain our working relationship. How can we keep things professional when our personal lives are so intertwined? Every time I interview him, I have to put on a mask, hiding myself behind a veneer. It’s becoming harder and harder to do, especially as Elliot's behavior starts to affect the team's dynamic. The tension around him is uncomfortable, and the pressure is beginning to fray at the edges of my mask. How long can we keep this up before something, or someone, snaps? I hope we don’t have to find out.

After the team finishes up practice, I wait for my turn to interview Elliot. As I watch him interact with the media, I notice the strained expressions on his teammates' faces. He is being an asshole again, his frustration and stress spilling over into his interactions. When my turn comes, I force a smile and approach him with my microphone.

"Elliot, can I get a few words with you?" I ask, keeping my tone as level as possible.

He shrugs, barely looking at me. "Make it quick, Ziggy. I've got places to be."

Suppressing a sigh, I begin. "How do you feel about the team's performance in practice today? Any thoughts on Game Two tomorrow?"

He snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. "Same as always, Ziggy. We worked hard, and we're ready. What else is there to say?"

I feel a flicker of irritation but push on. "Do you think the team is prepared for Montreal's speed and power on the ice?"

Elliot rolls his eyes. "Isn't that what practice is for? To get ready for our opponents? We're not idiots, you know."

My patience is practically gone. I clench my teeth, forcing a smile. "Of course. It's just that fans are curious about your strategy. Any particular areas you're focusing on?"

He smirks, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, Ziggy, I'll lay out our entire game plan right here for you. Wouldn't want to leave the fans in suspense."

It is at that very moment that my last straw snaps. "You know, Elliot, a little respect wouldn't kill you. I'm just doing my job."

His eyes narrow. "And I'm doing mine. Maybe you should focus on that instead of fishing for soundbites."

I take a step back, the hurt and anger filling my chest. "Fine. Thanks for your time, Elliot."

I wait for the cameras to stop rolling and for everyone to disperse before turning back to Elliot.

"Oh, and Mr. St. Germain, get fucked, you lippy cunt," I say, my voice dripping with fury. I don't wait for his reaction.Instead, I turn on my heel and walk away, my heart torpedoing through my chest.

If I stick around, I really might say something I regret. As I storm down the hallway, I can hear the cheers and shouts from his teammates, praising my clapback. I said what they were all thinking, after all. I won't stop. I can't stop. My steps echo in the empty corridor, and I feel it deep in my gut that something here has to give. If it doesn't, it's only a matter of time before it all comes crashing down. The line between our professional and personal lives is almost unbearable, and I don't know how much longer I can keep it up.

Later that evening, instead of going to Elliot's house like we had planned, I go back to my hotel room, ignoring my phone and anyone trying to contact me. Instead, I find a sappy romance and curl up in bed, ready to rage-cry my eyes out. I can't shake the general feeling of unease. An unshakeable sense of sadness lingers. How can I remain objective when my feelings for Elliot are so tangled up in everything I do? Nothing feels right anymore.

How can I sit by and watch him treat people this way, especially those of us just trying to do our jobs? Right as the movie hits its peak and the tears are welling in my eyes, a knock on my hotel room door startles me. My heart starts racing—there is only one person who would knock on my door at this hour. When I open the door, his face softens slightly at the sight of me, a look of relief shadowing his features before returning to a very pissed off scowl. Uh oh…

"Can I come in?" Elliot asks.

"No," I reply, crossing my arms defensively.

"I think you are going to want to hear what I have to say. And I'm pretty sure you don't want anyone who walks by the hallway to be involved with what I have planned for you," he says thickly, his voice low and intense.

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