I was afraid she’d say that. “What if I just play my game?”
She leaned back, and the leather creaked beneath her weight. The shift made the buttons on her shirt strain a little too, which… didn’t add to the ‘fewer distractions’ theory either.
“You mean like you’ve been doing for the past seven years?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Is that what you really want?”
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my shorts. “You’re really scary, you know that? And bossy. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“They were my nicknames in kindergarten. Now can we get back to work?” Her mouth curved into a half-smile that softened up her face. “Team effort. Excited about the season–”
“Don’t say anything about Trey. Got it.”
She eyed me with a raised brow. “Do you?”
“Yes, Coach.”
Her mouth twitched like she wanted to laugh, but she pursed her lips and forced it away. “Let’s go.”
She led the way to the press room, where the noise hit like a wall.Reporters packed shoulder-to-shoulder, cameras already trained on the podium. Bright lights, too hot after the cold of the ice. I hated this part.
Bob was there, of course. Big grin, loud handshake, already talking like he owned the place. Coach strolled in looking over it already, and Bob waved me over to the table.
Holly glanced back at me. “Remember. Script.”
I took a seat next to Coach, and flashes went off like strobe lights. The first few questions were easy. Team effort, Blackhawks put up a good fight, we were all looking forward to a banging season.
Then a voice from the back cut through. “Hunter—Ryan Tate, Chicago Herald. Big shoes to fill after Trey’s exit. How’s the room holding up? Some say morale’s down. Crisis talk. Your thoughts?”
My grip on the mic tightened. The word “crisis” was like a needle scratch in my brain, and I looked over to Holly. She gave a small nod.
Stick to the script. Don’t talk about Trey.
“Morale’s fine,” I said evenly.
“But losing a leader in the net, like Trey—”
“I said it’s fine,” I snapped, sharper than I meant. “If you wanna know about Trey, go ask him.”
A ripple went through the room. The reporter raised his brows, leaning forward like a shark smelling blood. “So no issues in the locker room? No tension with the coaching staff?”
I opened my mouth—
“If I may…” Holly appeared at my shoulder out of nowhere, calm as anything. “The team’s focus is hockey, not rumors. We’re looking ahead to the ultimate prize, and don’t have time to speculate with you. That’s all for tonight, thank you.”
Her hand touched my elbow, a subtle signal to get up. Coach McAvoy stood too.
“Hey, I have one more question—” someone called.
“That’s all for tonight,” she repeated, a professional smile on her face.
She steered me offstage, cameras still flashing. My pulse thumping in my ears.
Back in the hallway, she stopped, turning to me. “That is exactly what we don’t do.”
I dragged a hand down my face. “He kept going on about Trey. It got me all confused with the script and stuff.”
“He was baiting you. That’s his job. This–” She gestured between us. “-is mine. And if you want to survive this season, you’ll let me do it.”
I didn’t answer.
