Running my hand through my soaked hair, I hike up the grip on my stick and bare my weight against it. "Yeah, we're feeling good. The guys put in a lot of work this off season, and we're eager to get started."
Emma Dean, a reporter for Golden City's local sports channel, nods in understanding. She's a regular after practices, especially when there's buzz around a big game. "I'm sure you are. And you're coming off a Cup win. How do you think that will affect your mindset heading to Grand Oaks this week?"
"It won't affect us at all," I say without hesitation. "We know we'll have a target on our backs. Every team, not just the Gladiators, is gonna deliver their A game, but we'll be ready."
Emma leans in closer, her overly sweet floral perfume mixing with my post-practice sweat in the worst possible way.
She's objectively good looking, with her nice clothes, slicked-back ponytail, and perky tits she always makes sure to show off. But she's not my type. I like my women a little edgier—ripped jeans, inked skin.Chocolate hair, matching eyes.Women who smell less like flowers and more like… citrus.
"And how about you personally?"
Emma jolts me back to the interview with the start of her next question, and I'm grateful I'm still wearing my padded hockey pants to cover the part of me that's stuck onher.
"Are you feeling like you might get some residual kickback from last year's failed drug test?"
Without hesitation, a scoff falls from my lips. Emma raises a brow as I roll my eyes and shake my head. Countless goals, dozens of wins, and a goddamn Cup—yet this is what it always comes to. It used to piss me off, but now it's entertaining. That one mistake is the bone they can't stop chewing on. Well, they can't shake me if that's what they're going for. If there's one lesson that's been nailed home these last few months, it's that it's easier to stop caring when you stop feeling altogether.
Inhaling deeply through my nose, I smack my lips, grinding the blade of my stick into the floor. "Guys chirp us about everything. I've been doing this long enough to tune them out. At the end of the day, they're still worried about me when I couldn't care less about them."
She laughs, tilting her microphone back. "You don't feel the need to defend yourself?" she asks, an eyebrow raised. Several of the guys around me chuckle under their breaths.
"The scoreboard will do plenty of talking," I say, looking right at the camera.
Her expression falters, a cross between impressed and uneasy, but she continues. "After everything last season, you seemed pretty quiet. We didn't see many of your usual moves—trick shots, celebrations, crowd work. Even your social media presence has gone dark..." She tilts the microphone toward me, waiting.
She raises an eyebrow, and I give her a blank stare. "Is there a question there, Emma?"
My voice is smooth and deliberate as I drag my tongue slowly across my lower lip. Her mouth parts slightly, and to the average viewer, she is preparing to respond, but I catch the slight hitch in her breath as her eyes track my movement.Two can play this game.
"I think Golden City wants to know if we'll be getting our icon back."
A quiet chuckle rumbles in my chest as I consider my answer. I kept my head down after the failed test, trying to move past this. To let it all blow over. To let myself process it all. I spent most of last season either suspended or under scrutiny. My P.R. manager and I thought maybe toning down my infamous antics might help them forget. Let me breathe. Give me time to sort myself out.
It backfired.
All it did was give them a silence to fill with their own bullshit—and time for me to realize I don't want any of it.
Slipping into the role I know best, I smirk, letting my arrogance take the wheel. "Who says he ever really left?" I wink at Emma, then turn away, leaning my stick against the side of my stall—a clear signal. This conversation's over.
"That's right," I hear over my shoulder. I don't have to turn to know Brett Burns, our best defenseman and my best friend, is standing next to me. His voice is almost as annoying as his laugh, but we love him for it anyway… usually. I throw him a side-eye as I stand back at attention, residual tension still hiding in my jaw from Emma's last question.
"Cap'sbeenback. Can't keep Superman down, can ya?"
I smile softly, but swallow hard. Emma shakes her head and gives a tight-lipped nod. She faces the camera and starts signing off as I go back to removing my equipment.
"Thanks, Drew. Nice to see you again," she says, turning back to me once the red light blinks off.
I tip my chin up to her before peeling off my shirt, pretending I don't notice the way her eyes linger on me. She's not subtle. None of them are. Sitting on the bench to remove my skates, I consider the last few minutes while the guys dick around in the background.
I didn’t ask to be put on a pedestal. The media, my dad, the whole goddamn world—they’re the ones who decided I was untouchable. But the second I slip, they’re the first to throw stones. I crossed a line, yeah. But the truth is, all of it—my ego, my game, even the drugs—serves the same purpose. To hold up the version ofmetheycreated.
"Yo, that little news hunny wants her some Anderson pie, doesn't she?" Burnsey throws his shoulder into mine before sitting on the bench that runs along our stalls. "You gonna hit that or what?"
I blow a heavy breath through my lips before responding. "What?" I ask, trying to drain my voice of irritation.
"Ms. Microphone with the knockers. She's always givin' you the eyes." He wiggles his brows up and down, and mine crease in annoyance.
All the puck bunnies are the same. They're just looking for attention and would love to get it from someone with a reputation like mine. Who wouldn't want a taste of the Flames' wildfire?
