“I think the only time you’ve done an interview without your face looking like a baby’s ass is during play-offs when beards are required,” Ty laments as we walk down the empty hall to the elevator.
“Yeah, well, things change,” I say with a shrug.
“I like this new, less uptight you,” Ty replies, and runs a hand over his own face with its two-day-old scruffy beard. Ty is never clean-shaven. His face goes from barely there scruff to full-on caveman depending on his mood. “Maybe this rougher Westwood image will land you an Axe Body Spray commercial.”
“Fuck off,” I bark, but I’m laughing, until a hotel room door opens just in front of us and I swallow it down and snap my lips closed before I can say anything else. It’s the reaction that’s been drilled into me from years and years of being in the public eye. Be quiet, polite and indifferent.
Luckily, the person who comes out of the room is Beau Echolls and not a random guest who might be offended by my potty mouth. Beau glances at us and actually smiles. “Hey.”
That throws me off. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile in my general direction, let aloneatme. Ty nods at him and grunts. I decide now’s the time to make up for that on-ice bullshit I caused. “Hey, Beau.”
He falls in step beside us. I clear my throat as we reach the elevator bank and Ty hits the button. “Listen, Beau, I’ve been meaning to tell you I’m sorry about interfering with Coach’s decision on the ice during the shoot-out.”
Beau looks over at me, his expression like stone. “You did what you thought was right.”
The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Luckily, it’s empty so we can continue this conversation. I let them both step in before getting in myself. Beau hits the button for the conference room floor. “But it wasn’t right. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
Both Ty and Beau are staring at me, not even trying to cover their surprise. It’s like my apologizing is a sign of the apocalypse. That’s embarrassing. I shrug under the weight of their stares. “Seriously. I apologize.”
“Okay,” is all Beau responds.
I’m okay with that. The silence in the elevator is weird—not awkward but just weird, so Ty starts yammering on about the game tomorrow night and how the Toronto Titans are doing worse than us so we should win it. I dig my phone out of my pocket and turn it back on. The message and voice mail alerts go nuts. Now they’re both staring at me again.
“Sorry,” I mutter, and open up my messaging. There are four from Don; all of them say the same thing. We need to talk; I need to call him. They get more and more urgent with each one, which is made obvious by the fact that the last one is in all caps with five exclamation marks. I ignore those. I’ll call him after the interviews. He’ll understand me putting media first, since he’s the one that taught me to do that.
There’s one from Stephanie, which she sent about half an hour after the one I sent her. She says,I know you’re napping. Hope you’re dreaming of me the way I dream of you. Skype me when you get a chance. We need to talk and I want to see you when we do it. xo Steph.
“Skype. Nice! Someone’s getting virtual sex!” Ty says, because the nosy asshole read the message with me. He claps my shoulder, but I shove him.
Beau watches us. “That Sebastian Deveau’s sister?”
I nod and wait, my shoulders tense because I don’t know what to expect from small talk with Beau. We’ve never done it before. He starts to smile, but it’s weird and somehow not at all friendly. I wonder if I’m reading too much into it because of our past, or maybe this is what he looks like when he smiles. I’ve never seen him do it before so I wouldn’t know.
“Guess she’saddictedto ya,” Beau mutters, and his smile deepens but doesn’t gain any warmth. The elevator doors open and he’s the first to step off, walking briskly into the conference room.
“What the fuck was that?” Ty says under his breath, his face reflecting my feelings of confusion exactly. “That kid is fucking weird.”
“Yeah. I guess.” I shrug and push Beau from my head as we enter the conference room. It’s big and dimly lit except for the spotlights and camera lights shining in specific areas where chairs are set up facing each other for the reporters and the players. Beau is already situated in a chair across from his brother Chance, who works for NBC Sports.
Nikolai is being interviewed in the corner by a guy from TSN and as soon as we enter I’m waved over to talk to the girl from ESPN. I walk over, shake her hand and settle into the seat across from her. As she fusses with her mic and a guy comes over to attach mine, I send Stephanie a quick text telling her I’ll call her as soon as I’m done with interviews and then turn my phone off and shove it in my back pocket.
The questions start off simple. What do I expect from this road trip? How do I feel the rest of the season will go? And then they turn to the personal questions. How am I liking San Diego? How is it different from playing for Seattle? I give her my standard upbeat answers where I say how much potential the team has and how great the weather is in San Diego and blah, blah, blah. Honestly, I could do this in my sleep. But then she throws in something I’ve never had to deal with before. A girlfriend question.
“So I saw your Instagram account…” She lets the sentence trail, like she expects me to pick it up. I’m that type of interviewee. I play ball. I give them what they want.
“And you want to know who the girl is in the photo?” I finish for her.
“We know who it is,” she replies, smiling brightly. “It’s Stephanie Deveau. The sister of Winterhawks defenseman Sebastian Deveau.”
“Yes, that’s her.” I nod and start to rub my palms on the front of my jeans but stop myself. It’s a nervous habit I haven’t done in interviews since Juniors. Why the hell is that popping up again?
“It’s just very rare that you post photos with anyone, and then two pictures with two different girls in a week.” There’s an incredulous lilt to the reporter’s voice, and I try not to frown as she mentions two photos. I guess deleting something online is really as useless as people say.
I shrug and give her a friendly smile, because the last thing I’m going to do is start trying to explain the whole Liz thing. “I do have a life outside of the rink. And friends.”
“So those girls are your friends?”
“No. I mean, yeah. Well, Stephanie is my girlfriend.” Wow, that was as graceful as a drunk kangaroo. But at least I got it out.
