Page 56 of The Charlie Method

Beck winks at her. “Their loss.”

Marjorie claps her hands. “All right, everyone. Ignore the camera—it’s not here. Act natural. Pretend like you’re getting ready for the game.”

Coach growls from the doorway. “They are getting ready for the game.”

“I know. I just mean—” She notices his face, that deadly Jensen stare, and stops talking.

“Listen, lady.”

Uh-oh, Coach busted out thelady. From the corner of my eye, I see Shane struggling not to laugh.

“You’re here as a courtesy,” Coach continues irritably. “We are under no obligation to let you into the locker room and invade the privacy of my men.”

She’s brave enough to voice a protest. “They all signed releases—”

“They didn’t know what the fuck they were signing. They’re idiots.”

Shane snorts loudly from his locker, no longer able to contain it.

“You’re distracting us, lady. Warm-ups are about to start. My men need their heads in the game. So get on with your little ‘segment.’” He uses air quotes. “Get your ‘B-roll,’ and get the hell out.”

With that, he stalks across the room toward the corridor leading to the PT rooms.

“I think I made him mad,” Marjorie says, looking around uncertainly.

“That’s just his personality,” Case assures her. “But yeah, I suggest you get your shots quick.”

My irritation only grows as the cameraman starts filming our pregame prep, being as intrusive as he possibly can. Meanwhile, we all “pretend” AKA actually get ready while Marjorie orders us not to look directly at the camera.

I’m on the bench, lacing up my skates, when Marjorie’s shadow falls over me. “William. Is this a good time to ask you a few questions?”

No,lady. It’s fucking not. I’m about to face one of the toughest opponents in our conference.

“Sure,” I lie.

She clips a tiny mic to the collar of my jersey, then steps out of the frame as the camera lens focuses on me. I expect a softball question.

“Tell me, William, do you think hazing is a necessary part of team bonding, or is it an outdated and harmful tradition?”

That was not a softball.

I tamp down my annoyance. “We don’t do hazing of any kind at Briar. Never have, as far as I know.”

“Then you haven’t experienced any hazing rituals during your three years here?”

“Nope.”

Marjorie throws me another hardball. “Hockey is known for its physicality. Do you think the level of violence on the ice has crossed the line in recent years?”

“Seriously? Look, I’m about to play three periods of hockey. It’s a mental game. And I don’t have the brainpower to waste on these questions.”

“It’s a violent sport,” she points out. “The fights—”

“There’s no fighting in NCAA hockey. They’re strict about that shit.”

Marjorie winces. “Can you repeat that without the profanity?”

I grit my teeth. “I’m done. I need to focus.”

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