Page 35 of Game Misconduct
The rookies love it. The media eats it up.
I grit my teeth harder, because the contrast is too loud to ignore. Guys like Riley and Finn shine under the spotlight.
I survive it.
And survival is all I’ve got left to give.
The questions taper off, and handlers shuffle the herd. Players rotate in and out, cameras swinging to catch every angle, every sound bite they can milk.
When it’s Finn’s turn, he takes center stage and leans into the mic, eyes wide, cracking a one-liner about his hair being “game-ready, even if the rest of me isn’t.”
The room bursts out laughing. Reporters lap it up like he’s the golden retriever of hockey—chaotic, impossible to stay mad at.
Good for the team, even if it makes me look like the asshole.
I don’t give a shit. I’ve never been the guy to make the team look good in the media.
The only time the media loves me is when I’m helping the team rack up playoff cups.
And that’s fine by me.
Well, most of the time it’s fine. Every so often though, there’s a dull weight in my chest, and I wish things were different for me.
But they never have been and—at this point—they never will be.
The rookies shuffle in behind him, and I catch Cal’s voice falter.
He stumbles over a stat, his face reddens, and his shoulders fold inward like he’s about to implode under the lights.
I drift just close enough to be in the frame, but not enough to draw notice.
“Breathe, rookie” I murmur under my breath, low enough only he hears.
His chest expands, shaky but deeper. He resets and answers the next question cleaner. No one notices the way his spine straightens, but I do.
This is the part no one tells you about when you’re working your way up to the pros.
Not only do you protect the net, but you steady the kid. You make sure the cracks don’t spread.
That’s the job, even if no one calls it that.
Even if it gets you fired.
Finn claps Cal on the back with a grin, pulling the spotlight away, and the tension breaks. The cameras eat it up—chaos and charm playing better than silence and steel ever will.
I shift my gaze across the chaos and find her.
Sloane Carrington.
Not on camera, not taking questions. Just there in the background, directing traffic like a general disguised in a tailored blazer.
Controlled steel, every movement precise. She tilts her head, sends one rookie right, waves another forward, corrals Finn without raising her voice.
She never looks my way, but I feel it anyway.
The gravity of her being in my orbit, pulling without even getting close to touching.
A presence that makes the room move sharper, cleaner.
