Page 59 of Lovefool

I’m not a straight-A student. I’m a C student coasting through the curriculum with a Red Bull and a dream, so for me, it’s important that I take this journalist job seriously and prove to myself that I’m capable of pulling this off.

Knox shrugs, drumming his fingers in a rhythmless tune against the table, that gum of his rolling over his back molars and accentuating a smacking sound that makes my nerves grind together.

“We’re like a family. The guys make it easy to experiment with new ideas, and we’re always learning from each other when it comes to our skills.”

“And what are some skills you find yourself working on?”

Knox suddenly bursts into laughter as if I just delivered the funniest one-liner in existence, even going as far as slapping his knee for dramatic effect. “Me? Oh, I don’t need any extra work. Ask Crew. I’m one of the best players on the team.”

“And the humblest,” I add under my breath, pretending to jot down insightful notes into my notebook as a headache actively curb-stomps my brain in.

“When did your passion for hockey first start?”

Knox—the only person strong enough to stave off imposter syndrome with mere willpower—ponders my question before answering. “When I was a kid, I used to go down to the local lake during winter with a few of my friends and play hockey on the ice. It became somewhat of a seasonal tradition.”

“And do you want to pursue a professional career?”

“I can’t imagine a future where I’m not playing in the NHL. It’s the end goal. I know I have the chops to go pro, but it’s all about hard work and perfect timing.”

I never realized how serious these guys took hockey. I mean, playing at a D-1 level is pretty intense. They’re at the top of their game. Hockey to them is what protesting is to me—it’s their lifeblood.

I wrap up my last question in a neat, pretty bow, counting down the minutes until Sutton graces me with his presence. “Do you have any advice for people who want to start playing hockey?”

Knox preens. “It’s a learning experience. You’re not going to be perfect the first time around. You’re not going to be perfect the tenth time around. You’re always going to be improving, and it’s important that you allow yourself to make mistakes so you can learn from them. Also, Liquid I.V. is going to be your best friend. Not sponsored.”

My interview with Knox takes less than five minutes, and I send him strutting out of my makeshift office. I’m still clearing out the fumes of his arrogance when my next victim walks through the door.

Harlan occupies the seat, having far more decorum than his predecessor. He folds his hands in his lap, scoots the chair in so his chest is nearly flush against the edge of the table, and stares at me without blinking for an unnerving amount of time. He has this anxious energy about him that makes him resemble a dormouse.

Harlan has always struck me as the shier of the guys, which is fascinating, because the sport he plays requires some personability. He’s the exact opposite of Knox.

“Hi, Harlan. This is gonna be super low-key, alright? And if you want something off the record, just let me know.”

He glances around like he’s expecting a bounty hunter to barrel through the door and take him out with a state-of-the-art silencer. “I tend to…avoid interviews after games. Crew is usually the one who does all the talking.”

“I promise my questions aren’t as invasive as the paparazzi’s.” I chuckle, though I don’t think it comforts him in the slightest.

It takes him a second to catch on, and when he does, he laughs like he was never allowed to at home. “Oh, hah, HAH.”

“Right…so, what do you think the team’s biggest strength is?”

Harlan bites his bottom lip, quite literally chewing over the response that appears to stick to the sides of his throat. “The team’s biggest strength?”

Oh, dear. I’d let him off the hook, but I can’t show any favoritism. If the other players thought the interview process was optional, they wouldn’t waste their time entertaining me.

Sympathy and guilt scorch my cheeks. I flip my journal closed and lay my pen to rest.

“We can totally skip this question if you want,” I offer, hoping that I come off approachable enough for him to lower his guard.

I don’t need Harlan’s input that much, especially if it’s going to give him an aneurysm. I’m pretty sure a surface-level question about his preferred post-game snack would take him out.

“I just don’t want to say the wrong thing, you know? The team has so many strengths—I can’t consolidate them into a single answer,” he rambles, shifting his eyes downwards to fixate on something out of my line of sight. His well-built chest falls shallowly—the only indication he’s breathing at all—and I can practically hear the uncertainty saturating his tone.

“Uh, okay. No worries. What about the team’s biggest weakness?”

“Weakness?” he parrots.

Right, that’s a way more incriminating question.