The game is painful. I can’t concentrate, and I’m not playing well at all. Everyone else on the Saints seems to be following my lead. By the beginning of the third we’re down 4 to 1 and by the final buzzer we’ve lost, 5 to 2. I did nothing to help us or prevent the massacre. I didn’t score; I didn’t get an assist—hell, I didn’t even get a penalty. I was a ghost out there, and I loathe myself for it.
The coach storms into the locker room before the media, as we sit silently tugging off gloves and helmets. He glares at each of us. “We were one win out of a play-off spot until tonight. Now we’re two wins away. We’re sliding the wrong way. We need to turn it around. Practice tomorrow ten a.m.”
No one dares to groan or murmur their discontent, even though we won’t be landing at home until some ungodly hour of the morning, and the first day back from an East Coast road trip is usually practice-free. The media strolls in a few seconds after he’s left. As expected, because it’s what happened after the game in Toronto, they crowd around me.
I shove a Saints hat over my damp, sweaty hair, take a deep breath and wait for the first question. “Avery, you seemed to struggle a little bit out there,” someone comments.
I barely look up to see who it is, keeping my focus on the wall of microphones in front of my face. “Yeah, I didn’t have my best night, that’s for sure,” I reply. “I need to do better if I expect the team to do better, and I do. We’ve all got to dig deeper next time.”
It’s a canned response. Nothing new or enlightening, just the same old sound bites. Someone else asks me about a specific play in the second where I overshot the puck and it bounced off Ty’s stick and almost into our own net. I give a typical answer—I made a mistake and there’s no excuse. It’s my standard answer and one I believe. I never forgive myself for being anything less than perfect at this job. And then Chance Echolls asks a question.
“So do you think the disruption to your game is being caused by the reports your girlfriend has drug problems?”
A hush blankets the room, filling the air with tension. I look up and find his blue eyes and wolfish face staring down at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Stephanie Deveau spent eight months in a rehab facility outside of Seattle less than five years ago,” Chance informs me, and everyone, because not one reporter has turned their cameras and mics off. I know because I’ve finally looked up. Sure, some of them are wearing sympathetic expressions or even horrified ones, but no one is turning away. Assholes.
I sit up straighter on the bench, rolling my shoulders back and tilting my jaw up. Marsha takes a step into the scrum like she’s about use all her PR powers and halt the questioning. I raise my hand lightly, stopping her in her tracks. I take a second to make sure I’m going to present this as calmly and in as detached a manner as possible, and then I tell him. “Five years is a long time. People change a lot in five years. Look at you, Mr. Echolls. Five years ago you thought you were going to be an NHL player, but here you are asking NHL players questions about their personal lives instead.”
Someone snorts and there’s a chuckle from the back of the pack somewhere. I keep my face calm and simply enjoy the shades of red taking over Chance’s face. He’s like a really angry mood ring or something. Then I turn my eyes down, focusing on the mics again, and add, “It wasn’t our best game, except for Furlov. Tonight would have been a lot worse if he hadn’t stopped twenty-nine shots. You guys should go give him some love.”
They take the cue, all of them except Echolls, who is still standing in front of me, his face crimson, even though his cameraman has scurried off with the pack. If he could blow steam out of his ears, he would. That makes me crack my first smile since this thing happened. I stand up. He’s got about an inch on me, but I eclipse him in width. I slowly adjust my hat, tugging on the brim. He opens his mouth, but he closes it without a word and stomps off.
Marsha walks over. “That was…well, it wasn’t as big of a disaster as it could have been.”
I nod. “With the way things have been going, I’ll take that as a win.”
Marsha gives me a small smile. “You know this thing will blow over.”
I nod and she nods back before she marches over to where all the reporters are standing in front of Nikolai. I look down at Ty. “That was fucking intense. You’re a badass with the dig about him not playing. But isn’t your dad going to flip? It wasn’t exactly Saint Avery material.”
I shrug. “Fuck Saint Avery and fuck Don Westwood.” I pull my Under Armour off and turn to make sure the reporters are out before dropping my pants. “I fired him.”
“You what?”
“Don’s not my manager anymore,” I repeat.
Ty stands up so quickly he almost knocks me over. “When? Why?”
“Because I’m sure he’s the one who told the press about Stephanie’s past,” I tell him, and head to the showers.
He watches me go in shock. I’m sure I’ll end up explaining it to him later. It isn’t hard to put the pieces together. I did it instantly. My dad knew about Steph and me. He was ticked off that I announced our involvement without consulting him. He must have done a background check on Steph. After all, he did one on Lizzie. He admitted that. And he probably leaked Steph’s past to the press because he knew just telling me wouldn’t get me to change my feelings.
Then he suggested the only way to fix the situation was to break up with Steph. That was his big solution? He made it seem like it was the only solution—he was so convincing with his laundry lists of reasons. The two that hurt the most were: “You have to distance yourself from this, at least until people forget about it. Two of your endorsements have already called asking about it.” And “Avery, if she lied to you about this, what else is she lying to you about?” The first because I’d been trained to care what companies thought about me since I was ten and the second because…what if he was right? What if the girl I thought I knew so well I didn’t really know at all?
After my shower I walk back into the locker room and change into my suit. Ty doesn’t bring it up again until we’re on the bus. “Did he admit he did it?”
“No, and I didn’t expect he would. But if he can basically hire Lizzie to date me, he can throw a story to the media,” I reply. “He’s overstepped his bounds as a business manager way too much. This was a long time coming.”
“Dude.” Ty shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face. “He’s your dad.”
“He hasn’t been my dad in a long time.” It’s pathetic, but it’s the truth.
The bus is going straight to the airport, so the trip is long. As we chug along the freeway, I check my phone. There’s a message and, thankfully, it’s from Stephanie. I listen to it twice I’m so happy to hear her voice.
“Hey. Maddie told me I should call you. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to avoid you. I’m just avoiding the press. My phone is ringing nonstop. Maddie says you guys are coming back tonight. You can use your key to come and wake me up. I know I said it’s for emergencies, but this kind of feels like one, so…if you want to, I want you to. I don’t care what time it is.”
As soon as we get off the bus and I can get a little privacy, I call her back. I don’t expect her to answer, and she doesn’t, but I want to hear her voice anyway. I decide not to leave her a message. I’ll just take her up on her invitation and crawl into bed with her. And then this will all be all right.
