“Again, I think the way I played tonight says more than I can with words.” I say, repeating my previous statement before remembering another key from media training: Don’t be defensive. “When I suit up and leave the locker room, I also leave behind the real world and any personal problems I might be having off the ice. I want a clear head when I’m defending the net, and I think that showed tonight.”
“So you are admitting the video has caused problems off the ice,” another reporter confirms, taking the mere scrap I left dangling and running with it.
Shit.
“I don’t think that was a question,” I reply calmly, despite my heartrate kicking up a notch.
“Your agent is Louis Spaulding, who has a wonderful reputation within the NHL. Are either of you concerned about the new playboy-boy image this has created? Perhaps how it may affect your prospects for next year?”
“You’re acting as if it’s some sort of sex tape or that I’ve been accused of assaulting someone when neither are the case,” I respond immediately, the words coming out before I can filter them properly.
So much for not being defensive.
From the corner of my eye, I catch movement from Coach—his hand slowly raising to cover his mouth—and I know that was the wrong move. So, I do the best I can to salvage the situation, and pray like hell it doesn’t make it even worse.
“As far as I’m concerned, the video was a private, consensual moment between myself and the other person on that call. It’s a moment that should have never been made public butunfortunately was. But despite the light it might cast on me, I have to believe any prospective teams would put more stock into my ability on the ice when it comes to the draft in June.”
“So you think your reputation shouldn’t be a factor?” the female reporter presses.
“I think I’m here to play hockey, and after the game, I’m here to talk to you about playing hockey. My personal life shouldn’t even enter the equation during press interviews, let alone—”
“All right, I think we’re just about out of time for these guys,” Coach says, appearing at my side out of nowhere to speak into my mic. And from his clipped tone and the way he cut me off, he’s clearly of the mindset that it’s time I shut up before I do even more damage.
Brodyis already rising from his seat at the table, waving to the reporters, and heading out. Unfortunately, for me, I’m still slightly boxed in by Coach’s broad form while he continues talking to the press—most of whom are muttering and grumbling about their time being abruptly cut short.
“Thank you, ladies and gentleman. The guys and I are sorry to end things early, but we’ll see you again after the next game.”
Coach shifts slightly out of the way, making room for me to slide past him.
“I don’t mind. I think my boyfriend is waiting for me anyway,” I mutter under my breath.
A harmless statement—one meant for no one else’s ears—but I realize a second after speaking it, the mic is still hot.
Fuck me so fucking hard.
The reporters go wild, of course, jumping at the chance to get more info. I hear countless questions shouted in my direction all at once; some about my sexuality, whether this is my way of coming out, that kinda shit.
But the woman who was grilling me earlier is loudest of all, shouting, “Camden! Will you at least tell us who your boyfriendis?”
Didn’t I just say my personal life was off-limits?
But is this relationship still considered my personal life if it’s not real? More importantly, wasn’t the entire point of this PR relationship to make me look better in the eyes of the press and NHL managers?
That thought alone has me leaning back toward the mic, giving them the juicy detail they need.
“My boyfriend is Logan Reed.”
The answer causes even more pandemonium to ensue, and despite Coach clearly calling for the end of the press conference, more and more questions are thrown at me in rapid-fire succession, making it impossible to catch every single one.
“Is he who the video was initially for?”
“What does Coach Reed think about your relationship with his nephew?”
“Are you attaching yourself to the Reed name to further your NHL prospects?”
The last one—once again from the same woman reporter—pisses me off the second I hear it. I take it as my cue to exit stage left and get the hell out of here, preferably before I end up cussing her out with God knows how many cameras on me.
I quickly push past Coach, who grabs for my arm with an expression of shock and bewilderment.
