Backinthelockerroom, everyone’s talking about Reid’s goal, and I get a few pats on the back as if it was partly my goal too, but this was all him.
“Hart,” Coach Dennings calls, and I spin.
“Yes, Coach.”
“Follow me, the conference is about to start.”
“Umm, sure thing, Coach,” I reply, following him out and down the hallway. Reid is waiting outside the conference room, a security guard positioned on either side of the large doors waiting to pull them back when Coach gives them the signal.
“Great work tonight, boys,” the coach says, then he nods to the guards and I’m instantly blinded by the flashing lights inside.
Coach goes in first and sits in the seat furthest from Reid. I move to follow him in, but I grab the cuff of his jersey and tug a little.
“I’m not sure . . .” I start, and he turns and leans in a little.
“You belong here, don’t forget that,” he says, and I glance back to the room full of reporters waiting to ask us about the game, the win, and undoubtedly Reid’s amazing goal.
Reid sits first, and my hand wobbles a little as I pull out my chair. I grab one of the bottles of water lined up in front of us and crack the lid. They’ve got all sorts of sponsored drinks on the table, energy drinks, even a coffee-flavored milk drink that definitely wouldn’t be any good to down after the kind of workout we just had out there on the ice. Coach Dennings reaches for that one, and now I know why it’s there.
The questions start immediately, and the first is directed to Coach Dennings.
“Killian, how much does this win mean to the Foxes, and are the moves we saw out there today what we can expect from the Foxes all season?” a reporter forLaced Upasks, recorder held out in front of him ready to capture the reply.
“A lot goes into these things, on and off the ice. The club’s confident this is just one of many exciting wins for the team, and as for the moves, well, you’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Reid, you pulled off the impossible with that shot. I don’t think we’ve seen moves like that from a D-man in years. Was that the same move you attempted against Boston?”
I lean into the mic. “Nothing’s impossible when you give this guy a stick,” I say without thinking, and now their attention is all on me.
“Luka, was that one of your trick plays? You’re really starting to live up to that nickname, Mr. Trick Play, aren’t you?” the same reporter asks, but I have no clue how he knows about the nickname. Is that something the club would have told them, or did one of the guys say something in one of their interviews? Either way, they’re all looking at me, waiting for my reply.
“That was all Reid. If it were mine, he would have flicked it to me so I could send it into the top right.”
“Maybe next time,” Reid laughs, and they move on to the cliché-riddled questions about team effort, plans for the next match-up, and Coach Dennings’s team strategies, despite the fact he’ll never actually give any of those up.
We get back to the locker room and the team is waiting, most with towels still around their waists, and they clap when they see us, cheering us into the room.
“Nice work,” Kirkston says, slapping Reid on the shoulder. “Keep that kind of thing up, and you’ll be right up there with me for top points scorer this season,” he says with a grin.
“I don’t think you’ve got much to worry about there,” Reid replies, shaking a few of the guys’ hands on his way to his locker, the biggest grin on his face and chest all puffed up proudly. Fuck, it’s sexy as hell to see him like this.
“Never say never, you heard the kid,” Kirkston continues, and only then do I look up and see that the television that’s normally glued to the golf channel is showing the live feed from the conference room we were just in. “Nothing’s impossible when you give this guya stick.” Kirkston repeats my words and grabs Reid’s hand, pulling him into a bro hug. “Really, that was sick.”
“Thanks,” Reid says, taking the compliment, but I can see he’s uncomfortable with the attention. Which is weird because he’s the captain. He’s one of the best defensive players in the NHL, and he’s been talked about and to for years, but I guess not like this exactly.
“Thanks for inspiring greatness, kid,” Kirkston says on his way past me. “And nice goal.”
“Thanks. I’ll be right there beside Reid chasing that top-points-scorer position in no time.”
He laughs with his whole body, one of those head slightly tilted, mouth open, belly laughs that makes everyone within a few feet smile.
“I’ll be happy to have you there beside me, kid.”
The guys go back to dressing, and I strip off my jersey when Thorne, our equipment manager, comes over. “I’ll take them,” he says, pointing to my shoulder pads.
“What for?” I ask as I remove them.
“You’ll be mic’d up from now on.”
