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Mics and Misconduct -Brynn
Chapter 1 - Brynn
"Chicago's locker room chemistry was so toxic it needed a hazmat suit, and somehow Zac Torres got blamed for the smell."
I lean into the mic, letting my voice drop into that conspiratorial register my listeners love. The "On Air" light glows red above my bedroom-turned-studio door, and Riley's laugh crackles through my headphones from her apartment across the city — I picture her in her usual uniform of oversized glasses and a hoodie she probably slept in.
"Okay, you beautiful degenerates," I continue, "buckle up, because we need to unpack the trade that broke hockey Twitter and my personal will to live. The Minnesota Mammoths just acquired six-foot-three of stone-faced controversy, and I have thoughts."
"You always have thoughts," Riley says. "That's literally the premise of this podcast."
"Rude. Accurate, but rude." I glance at my whiteboard, where I've scrawled TORRES = ENIGMA OR ASSHOLE?? in aggressive red marker. The question marks mock me. "So here's where we're at: Zac Torres, twenty-nine years old, five seasons with Chicago, career plus-minus that makes strong men weep with joy, and yet somehow—somehow—this man has been labeled a 'locker room problem.'"
I makeair quotes even though no one can see me. The lavender candle on my desk is fighting a losing battle against the ghost of last night's kung pao chicken.
"The advanced stats tell a different story," Riley says. "Torres's on-ice impact was actually—"
"Riley." I hold up a hand she can't see. "I love you, but if you say 'expected goals above replacement' one more time, I'm going to need you to translate that into a language that includes feelings and drama."
A pause. Then, dry as toast: "Fine. He made his teammates better. They just didn't like him for it."
"See? Was that so hard?" I grab my stats printout and fan myself with it, even though the apartment's February chill has me in two sweaters. "He's the vegetables your mom hid in the mac and cheese. Nutritious but unappreciated. And now he's our problem."
"Minnesota's problem."
"Our city, our team, our problem. I'm nothing if not a homer." I pull up my notes, scanning bullet points I've practically memorized. "Right, so—the official line from Chicago's front office is 'pursuing a different direction.' Which is corporate-speak for 'we needed a scapegoat and he doesn't fight back.'"
"You think he was scapegoated?"
"I think—" I stop. Take a breath. "I think it's interesting that a guy whose teammates scored more when he was on the ice is somehow blamed for bad vibes. The advanced metrics don't lie, even if I need you to translate them for me."
"The eye test says he's difficult. Media-averse. Doesn't do the whole 'personality' thing."
