Page 3 of Grizz

He laughs, tossing his gloves into his stall.“Two goals and a highlight-reel takedown?You’re gonna make Coach cry.Or nominate you for sainthood.”

Within moments, the locker room opens to the press and reporters swarm me.Flashing bulbs, mics shoved in my face and recorders already rolling.

I lean back in my stall, one leg stretched out, a towel around my waist.My lip’s swollen from Wiggins’s original hit and there’s a welt blooming under my eye.I could’ve waited to clean up, but what’s the point?They don’t want a pretty boy.They want raw, and I’m always happy to oblige.

“Grizz, what led to the fight in the third?”one guy yells over the noise, notebook shaking in his hand like he thinks I might punchhimnext.

I laugh.These guys cover our games, but it’s like they don’twatchthem.It baffles me how clueless the media can be sometimes.

“What led to it?Were you watching the same game I was playing?’Cause 25 took a run at my head twice, both late and dirty.Refs swallowed the whistle, so I handled it.”

“Do you regret the way you responded?”another calls out.

I tilt my head as if I’m considering it.

I’m not.

“If I wanted to be second-guessed by guys in blazers who’ve never taken a hit in their lives, I’d coach peewee and deal with helicopter parents.”

A few reporters chuckle.Most just jot it down with glee.I see Brian Something or Other, hovering near the wall clutching his clipboard.He’s bad at this PR job because he wants everyone to like him—players, coaches, reporters, even the interns—which means he stands for nothing and folds under pressure.He doesn’t know when to protect a player and when to let the story breathe.Every time a question gets too pointed or a quote too spicy, he looks like he’s about to have a coronary.The guy can’t manage optics and that’s the key part of his job.Instead, Brian is built for crisisavoidance, not management, and that’s a death sentence in this industry.

“What do you say to people who think you’re a danger to the game?”a female reporter near the front asks, her voice overly professional.

I lean forward and my eyes lock on Olivia Cathcart.She is one of the few reporters I respect.She’s earned her place in this locker room and knows the game better than some of the players in the league.

“This is hockey.Danger is part of the game.Always has been, always will be.You want choirboys?Start a league in Sunday school.”

That gets a ripple of nervous, uneasy laughter, the precursor to a PR nightmare before it fully catches fire.

“Do you think the officials are targeting you?”she asks in follow-up.

“I don’t think,” I say.“Iknow.I get a penalty for breathing too loud.Meanwhile, I’m getting elbowed into next week and they’re calling it ‘good, clean hockey.’Either they’re blind or biased.Pick one.”

“Aren’t you worried the league’s going to come down on you?”

“They already do.”My shoulders lift in a shrug.“Every week it’s another fine.At this point, the commissioner has a direct deposit straight from my bank account.”

Brian takes a step forward as if he might call it, but I keep going.Might as well give them the full show.“Maybe next time I’ll just let someone take my head off and smile for the cameras.That what you want?”

I’m wrapping up the last of the postgame questions when the energy shifts and a hush falls over the space, the type of silence reserved for power entering a room.

I glance up and sure enough Julian Langley is striding into the locker room, looking every bit the billionaire franchise owner in his bespoke suit.He looks pissed.

I don’t flinch.

In fact, Irelish it.

His eyes flick to me, then scan the reporters still loitering near my stall.I lean back in my seat, sweaty and bruised, still shirtless, blood drying on my knuckles, looking every inch the PR disaster I know I am.

Let the man squirm.

Across the room, I watch Langley beelining toward Brian, who’s already halfway into a stress-induced ulcer.Langley’s speaking to him in a low voice, the perfect measure of polish and power.Brian’s nodding, stammering, absorbing the blows like a human sponge.

I’m not sure what Langley’s saying, but when Brian drops his head and takes one last look at me, I’m guessing his shortcomings were noted by the owner of the team.He shuffles out of the locker room, and I imagine we won’t be seeing him again.

Another casualty, courtesy of yours truly.

Langley’s eyes scan over to me and I know inside, he’d like nothing more than to rip into me.But he’s not like that.He wields his power in hardline decisions, not in vocal outrage.