Page 7 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

“Get dressed,” I snap at him, my back still turned. “I’ve finished all my other one-on-one interviews. You’re the last one. I won’t leave until it’s done, so make it fast. I have a postgame interview in 35 minutes,” I spew out, not daring to turn around.

What feels like hours pass before Elliot finally speaks. “Let’s get this over with.”

I turn slowly. I don’t know what I’m afraid of at this point. It can’t get any worse, but I still don’t trust it. Elliot’s choice of attire doesn’t make it any easier. Oh my god, I hate it here. As if being naked under a towel isn’t torment enough, I now get to interview him in gray sweatpants, a Red Wolves t-shirt, and a backward hat. He is the worst. But I know I have a job to do, so I square my shoulders and focus on the task at hand.

Summoning my cameraman, we begin the interview. I refuse to look any further down than that godforsaken mustache. Despite my disdain for him, it’s hard to stop looking at him. I must maintain a professional demeanor. Ask the necessary questions and listen to his responses to adjust accordingly. This is just part of the job.

Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I dive into the one-on-one interview with Elliot. My hands are slightly shaky as I adjust my notes and glance at the questions I’ve meticulously prepared. Elliot stands across from me, his expression full of annoyance. Yeah, well, I don’t want to be here anymore than you, sir. Despite the awkward tension, I remind myself that this is just another challenge to overcome, and I refuse to lethis irritation throw me off my game. I plaster on my most professional smile and signal for the camera to start rolling. “Alright, Elliot, thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”

He nods curtly, barely making eye contact. “Yeah, no problem.”

I glance at my first question, determined to start strong. “How do you feel about your performance today?”

His tone is flat and uninterested, and he replies, “Fine.” I push on, not letting his lackluster response faze me.

“The team managed to pull ahead and secure a win, but it was a close call. What do you think was the key to turning the game around in the final moments?”

He shrugs, looking away. “Defense stepped up.”

I roll my eyes at his frustratingly brief response. How the hell are we going to edit this into something worthwhile? “What adjustments will you be making in preparation for the next game?”

He mutters, “Same as always,” clearly not in the mood for this, “maybe next game, someone won’t interrupt my pregame routine.”

I grimace. He said it softly, but the camera had to have picked it up.

I force a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “Rumors are floating around that you are superstitious. Your routines are things of legend. Care to share any of those with our viewers?”

Elliot finally looks at me, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “No.”

Seriously. “Why not? What are you scared of?” I challenge, leaning forward slightly.

“Not gonna happen,” he says, his tone shifting slightly. “Keeping the hockey gods happy is way more important than answering your questions.”

As the interview progresses, I feel this sense of unease. There’s something off about Elliot, something that makes me question his sincerity. My instincts tell me not to trust him, and I can’t shake that feeling. But I push those thoughts aside and continue the interview, determined to get through it. I give him a sharp look.

Needing to course correct, I change the subject. “And what do you think was the most challenging part of today’s game?”

He sighs, his earlier annoyance creeping back in. “Just staying focused, you know?”

I agree with him. “Absolutely. Well, thank you for your time, Elliot. Best of luck in the next game.”

I signal the cameraman to cut, my frustration barely contained. As soon as the red light flicks off, I gather my notes with shaking hands, my jaw clenched tight. Elliot’s dismissive answers and aloof attitude have me seeing red. I turn on my heel, storming out of the locker room with determined strides. The nerve of him! There’s no time to dwell on it now, though. I need to cover the postgame interview. My mind races as I make my way to the press area, trying to shake off the irritation and regain my composure.

As I settle into my spot, I feel the irritation coursing through my veins. The frustration and anger still lingers, causingmy hands to tremble uncontrollably as I try to steady them. My jaw remains clenched, the muscles taut and rigid, a physical manifestation of my simmering rage. Taking a deep breath, I attempt to release the tension that has settled into my body. I can feel the tightness in my shoulders aching from the strain of holding back. My very movements are fueled by the fire burning within me.

As I wait for the postgame interview to begin, my mind races as I replay my interactions with the players. I push aside the frustration, reminding myself that I will be successful despite them. But the echoes of my interactions with Elliot continue to reverberate in my mind, intensifying my frustration. Showing my worth in this job is important. The constant pressure to perform under challenging circumstances weighs heavily on me. I refuse to let Elliot’s behavior define me or my work.

My anticipation and readiness for this to be over builds as the postgame interview finally commences. I focus on the frustration and channel my energy into asking insightful questions. This job may test me. It may push me to my limits. Let’s be honest, this job is going to be the death of me.

Chapter 8

I slouch into the chair at the postgame interview, my mood murderous and my patience dangerously thin. The bright lights and the buzz of the room are already getting on my nerves, while my mind remains fixated on the game we have just barely won. Disappointment and frustration are front and center, still fresh in my mind. My performance weighs heavily on my shoulders. I clench my fists, the frustration bubbling to the surface. I glance around the room, my gaze sweeping over the eager faces waiting for sound bites. The reporters continue to fire away with their questions, but their words seem to blend together. Just the fact that I have to do this right now irritates the hell out of me.

Of course, that damn reporter is here, the Barnacle. It’s like she has a damn spotlight on her. At least she is still looking flustered from our earlier encounter in the locker room. Watching her squirm gave me a small twinge of satisfaction. Her confidence seems to have wavered, her composed demeanor now replaced with a hint of unease. It’s a small victory, but it brings a slight smile to my face.

Sinking further into the chair, I cross my arms in a defensive stance. The tension in the room is thick, but I try my best to block out the chatter and focus on regaining my composure. I desperately need a moment of solitude to collect my thoughts. Ignoring the eager faces of the reporters, I close my eyes for a brief moment, hoping to find something to calm the turmoil raging war inside me.

The sound of Coach Wilder’s voice gets my attention. “Alright, let’s get started. First off, I want to commend the team for pulling through tonight. It wasn’t our best game, but we showed resilience.” That’s the sentence heard around the room, and the questions start flying. I stay silent, quietly observing, my irritation simmering beneath the surface. The first asshole-looking reporter asks, “Coach Wilder, what do you think was the key factor in the win tonight?”

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