Page 4 of Date with a Devil
But the same reporter tried to get a rise with a follow-up question. “So, you’re contradicting your coach, then?”
“Great. I can see your headline already.” Dane shook his head. “Look. You can ask Coach Stevens, and I’m sure he’ll agree with me. We’re saying the same thing, just with different words. Mine are direct, yours aren’t. Aren’t writers supposed to be concise?”
Dane lifted his muscled forearm and peeked at the gold timepiece that spanned his thick wrist.
Almost done with these clowns.
“You guys got two more minutes,” Dane said. “Next.”
“Dane, some fans say that you’re not the same player ever since signing your multi-year, seventy-million-dollar contract two years ago.” The hack journalist could barely control his sneer. “Any reply to the fans who say you don’t have what it takes to be a winner, that you’re content with losing now that you’ve earned your big payday, and that it was a mistake to name you captain in the first place?”
Dane’s jaw worked back and forth.
“Some fans are idiots. Look at that roster from two years ago and compare it to today. Two-thirds of our top six is gone. Reavo’s hurt and he’s missed most of last year, and all of this year. Our entire second line is made up of rookies. Hell, half the guys in this room are rookies. And I can think of something else that happened right around the same time I signed that contract.”
Dane gestured at the two vacant locker stalls to his right. Ryan Campbell’s stall still had all his gear in it, just the way he’d left it after his last game, salt-stained jockstrap and all. The only thing ‘Soupy’ hadn’t left in that locker was the bouquet of roses that laid at his seat; the team had set that there after the funeral. The entire scene was walled off behind a panel of thick glass to preserve it for eternity.
Jack Hathaway’s stall, on the other hand, was completely empty—which was the same way he’d left his, too. The only way you knew it was Hath’s stall was because the nameplate was still attached. Were they waiting for his contract to expire before they tossed that thing in the trash, or what?
Captain Hathaway—pft. CaptainRunawaywas more like it.
“But you guys won’t print that, will you?” Dane asked.
An uncomfortable silence gripped the room.
“Didn’t think so. Anyone else?”
“Big D,” another reporter began, trying to butter up the hockey player by using his nickname. “It’s obviously been a tough run for you and the Devils, from tops in the league just two years ago to last in the league now. Do you miss playing for a contender? The trade deadline is coming up next week, and some people are asking if you want out of Dallas. Are you hoping for a trade? A fresh start somewhere else, maybe?”
For the first time, someone had asked a question that gave Dane a pause. Seconds ticked by while he carefully chose his words, though it felt more like an eternity to the athlete.
“I’d never ask for a trade,” he said at last. “I want to be part of the solution here. I don’t want to run away. Running is weak.” Dane gestured again at one of the empty stalls to his right. “But, like I said, you guys won’t print that.”
“Dane—”
The hockey player shook his head. “No more. We’re done here. Media time’s over. Everyone out.”
The media scurried out of the room like rats on a sinking ship.
The team was alone, and the boys breathed a collective sigh of relief and began to undress.
“Tabernac,” Jean-Gabriel Parisi, aQuébécoiscenter and team clown, swore in his thick French-Canadian accent. “Is it just me or are those vultures extra bad lately?”
“It’s not just you,” Derek Reaves, the team’s resident knuckle-chucker said. The big man was built like a bear, but he hadn’t played all season long thanks to his latest injury—an MCL tear—that had him hobbling around on crutches. “They really are getting worse. They’re ramping up the outrage articles before the trade deadline.”
Goaltender Tanner Vaughn angrily stripped off the last of his pads, shoved them into his locker, and tore off the rest of his clothes. The enigmatic goalie was a young man of few words, but his emotions burned white-hot. The storm clouds followed Vaughn out of the locker room and into the showers.
“Welp, Vaughn’s pissed at me,” Mikey Vedros, a rookie defenseman, said. “Fuck, I’m pissed at myself for trying to make that pass.Stupid.”
Late in the third period, Mikey attempted a dangerous pass when he zipped the puck right in front of Vaughn’s crease. Sure enough, the Boston Brawlers managed to get a stick on the puck and deflected it towards the goal. Vaughn lunged and did the splits to try to make the save, but he never had a chance. That was the goal that ultimately cost the Devils the game.
“Don’t dwell on it. Mistakes are part of the learning process,” Dane said. “And Vaughn’s only pissed that he couldn’t make the save. Make that same mistakeagain,though—then yeah, he’ll be pissed at you.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Mikey said. He gestured at Hathaway and Campbell’s stalls. “Hey, why won’t the media ever quote you when you try to talk about them, Big D?”
“Beats the hell out of me. At this point, I keep bringing them up just to see those guys squirm.”
The boys in the room chuckled.
