Two days later, passing drills have my thighs screaming in the best of ways, and I skate behind the net, taking an easy lap. Riggs, our left winger, skates behind me.
“I hear you’re an onion,” he says dryly.
I snap my accusing gaze to Miller, who’s guarding the net. “And you’re a rat.”
Miller just shrugs, shooting me a smile from behind his face mask. “I’m a rat. You’re an onion. It’s all good.”
“We can call you Lake Onion and Miller Rat,” Riggs shouts, racing ahead of me.
I catch up easily. “And I’ll call you…Tortoise,” I say, flying past him. Helps being the fastest guy on the team.
That speed helps us win that night’s game, but even I’m not fast enough to evade the head of PR. After the W, he finds me unlacing my skates in front of my stall. With his tablet in hand and perma-grin locked in, Daniel launches his request with some butter: “Lake, of the two clutch goals. Can you talk to the media?”
Riggs barks out a laugh as he chucks his jersey into the laundry bin. “Lake? Talk to the press? More like grunt.”
He’s not wrong. Not usually. “I talked to them the other night,” I point out.
“Two goals, my man. Two goals,” Daniel emphasizes, staring at me with dark eyes.
“But, really,” I bargain, “don’t those goals speak for themselves?”
Daniel laughs lightly, then turns serious. “Nonetheless, you had the most impressive game.”
Joking aside, I hate talking at these after-game interviews, but I’ll be fined if I refuse. Reluctantly, I pull on an athletic shirt and trudge out of the locker room. Immediately, I scan the halls for Remy. I don’t see her chestnut hair, her clever smile. How the hell is she doing? Is she okay?
I wish I knew.
In the media room, I weave past a table of snacks and a crowd of podcasters, bloggers, and sports reporters, then park myself behind the table on the dais at the front of the packed room.
Daniel announces, “We have Lake Axelrod for a couple of minutes,” and before the final word is out, a baby-faced sports reporter in the front row shouts, “Why were you hitting stuffed foxes into the stands the other night? Was that a commentary on the Jumbotron Dump?”
Holy shit. It has a name? “No,” I bite out.
“‘No’ to it being a commentary, or ‘no’ to it being about the Jumbotron Dump?”
For fuck’s sake. “Why are we talking about something that happened two nights ago?”
“Because it’s still news,” he says earnestly. “The video has more than two million views.”
It’s like someone punched me in the kidneys. I guess that’s a clue as to how Remy must be doing—awful.
Daniel clears his throat. “If you want to ask Lake about tonight’s game, that’s fine. Let’s focus on the present.”
Nice redirect. Answering dumb questions about the stuffie slap shots won’t help Remy. People will talk about the Jumbotron incident, whether I comment or not.
If only I could distract them.
While answering perfunctory questions about tonight’s game, I scan the room for inspiration. Then, yup, I’ve got it.
I wrap up my time, stand, and give a wave, something I never do. I say a polite goodbye as I leave the dais. Also out of character. Keeps their focus on me. As I pass the snack table, I grab a handful of Goldfish crackers, toss one high into the air, and dart out my tongue to catch it. Then another, then another. By the time I’ve reached the door, I’ve caught ten in a row.
I look back at the media gaggle, and they’re all recording me. “To answer your question about the other night,” I say, from the doorway, “I guess I just wanted to show off my fun side.”
Then I exit. Maybe it won’t go viral, but maybe it’ll takesome heat off of Remy, and she won’t have to deal with more blowback.
But in case she does, I want to make her day a little better. On the way home, I duck into a shop and send a little something to her place, along with a handwritten note.
Hope this is keeping you in good company now.
