I wanted to hurl my phone against the wall. “No. I?—”
“Gotta run, Nico. See you around.”
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, chest heaving, while heat crawled up my neck. If I were a praying man, I might’ve said a few Hail Marys. I’d need divine intervention to get through this without landing in jail on a murder charge.
An hour later, after a private coaching session from Marissa, Packy and I shuffled into the office lounge, which had been converted into a temporary recording studio. She pointed at two chairs behind a table, opposite four reporters and a bank of cameras.
I glanced at Packy and shuddered. If my grin looked as fake as his, we were already in trouble.
Mark Jessup from CSN went first. “Hi, guys. I know you both, but I’ve never seen you together off the ice. During games, you do anything you can to get in the other’s way, which usually ends with a fight. You’ve practically made a career out of hating each other, and now the league says you’re teaming up for an outreach program. Did someone lose a bet?”
Packy leaned forward, smiling like we were giving out skating tips. “Nico and I have known each other since college.” He nudged my leg under the table hard enough to leave a bruise. “We’re old friends.”
“Very old,” I said, flashing my best camera grin. “We’re inseparable.”
The reporters laughed.
“Wait.” Jessup raised his eyebrows. “This isyouwe’re talking about. You can’t mean the same two guys who got matching ten-minute misconducts for beating each other with your sticks last October?”
“An old bonding ritual,” Packy said. “A team-building exercise, even though we’re on different teams.”
The reporters cracked up, and I shot Packy a smirk. “You call it bonding, I call it assault.”
“Semantics,” he said, grinning and spreading his hands in front of him. “Besides, Nico’s basically like a bad case of herpes. He keeps coming back.”
Everyone in the room laughed, and I rolled my eyes at Packy. “Nah, you’re the disease.”
His grin looked real, like he’d forgotten we were faking it. Everyone laughed again, and when Packy joined in, I couldn’t resist.
He tilted his head, and his hair caught the light again. I used to think the blondish streaks were highlights, but eventually figured out they were just him. His eyes sparkled, and I realized I’d never gotten them out of my mind: gray-blue with a flash of amber, like his eyeballs were showing off. Typical.
I leaned close to his ear and whispered, “You better watch yourself, you sorry sack of shit.”
He shielded his mouth with a hand. “Then don’t say we’re inseparable. It nearly made me throw up.”
The reporter from Sportsnet spoke up, clearly enjoying herself. “So, to confirm, there’s no chance one of you will punch the other during a classroom visit?”
I shook my head. “Not unless he mouths off.”
“I never mouth off,” he deadpanned.
The reporter grinned. “Are you sure this new outreach program isn’t secretly anger management?”
“Maybe both,” I said. “Multitasking.”
Packy leaned back and folded his hands like an angel. “See? Personal growth already.”
Jeanette Bronson, an ESPN reporter, spoke up. “Nico and Packy, what are your thoughts about this new PR campaign? The league has done them before, but the earlier efforts were shorter. This one will cover months and require more time away from your teams. Is it worth it?”
Packy spoke first. “Compared to football, basketball, and baseball, hockey’s still a small sport. But hockey’s amazing, and if we can get more people interested, everyone will benefit. Spreading the word and helping more people discover what we do is well worth missing a few games.”
“Agreed,” I said. “We won’t be out for more than one game every couple of weeks. The team owners are all on board, and I trust them to know what’s best.” He kicked my ankle. “Packy and I are excited about spending time together and meeting as many fans as we can.”
“It’s an honor to be part of this initiative,” Packy said.
Barely managing to hold back a laugh, I said, “For real.”
