Page 65 of Puck Daddies
I don’t want to talk. I want to hit.
PR shepherds us to the backdrop. The first few questions are normal. Neutral zone entries. Overtime structure. I keep my answers short. Then a reporter with a tablet steps forward. I know his face. He chases clicks.
The asshole from last time.
“Hudson, why are you so distracted lately? Your game is suffering. You let the play get behind you in overtime. All of Baltimore needs you to get your shit together.”
I swallow. “We made a bad change. That’s on us.”
He crowds in. “Is it the barista situation? Is it the poly thing? Are you fighting with your own team? Is your girlfriend making you soft?”
PR says, “Game questions only.”
He ignores it. “You’ve been chasing hits and missing assignments,” he keeps going. “You snapped last week. You’re about to blow it again. Fans want answers.”
“Back up,” I say, calm as I can manage.
He smiles like he smells blood. “Does she sleep in your bed or theirs on game nights?”
My hands move before my brain catches up. I step in and swat the tablet from his hand. It hits the floor, and the screen cracks. He staggers back and throws his arms wide like I hit him.
Cameras eat it. PR pulls me by the elbow. “We’re done here.”
My face is hot, and my vision tunnels.
Coach meets me in the hall. “Office!”
I sit on the small couch and look at the carpet so I don’t say something that lives forever. He shuts the door and stands with his arms crossed. “You can’t give them that. I don’t care if he spits in your face. You can’t do it.”
“I know.”
“Take three days. No skate. No gym with the guys. No arguing.”
“Coach—”
“The team needs you the way you can be, not the way you’ve been.”
That’s a hit that lands.
I don’t trust my mouth. I grab my keys and leave the rink by the side door because I don’t want to see anyone else. The night air hits me. It doesn’t help.
I drive home too fast and make myself slow down. I replay the clip in my head. Travis, cutting my lane. The pass dying. Me knocking a tablet to the ground like a fucking rookie.
It loops until I park.
The apartment is quiet except for a noise I don’t want to hear. I step into the kitchen and see Meg at the table with a stack of papers and her laptop open. Her face is wet.
“The fuck happened?” I ask.
She pushes a letter forward. “The thirty days is now three weeks.”
Rage whips through me. “How?”
“Amendednotice. They’re calling iturgent repairsto the building and a need to vacate sooner. Dana says they can try. She’ll fight it. But it’s a new clock.”
“The fuck!” I snap.
She sniffles. “I did this. I poked the bear when I emailed Callie back?—”
