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Mikey flashed the camera the smile that had first made me think, “Uh oh,” and started talking. “Hey Pauly, it’s your boy Mikey. Bell, Cally, and I have just been chatting with your really awesome grandma, and⁠—”

“—And she told us Porter’s your favorite player, so it’s obvious you know your stuff. Guy’s the absolute rock of our third line,” Bell broke in, wrapping his arm around Mikey’s shoulder and jostling him. “So why don’t you and your grandma come on down to the arena for our upcoming game against New York to cheer him on?”

“Really?” Mikey asked, looking dumbfounded.

“Of course,” Bell said, before turning to me. “Anything to add, Callahan?”

I’d practiced in my head what I was going to say when it was my turn—something about how important our fans were to us, and what an honor it was to play for them—but then Bell had complimented Mikey so effusively that I’d completely lost my train of thought.

So what I said instead was, “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year,” while lifting my right hand in a stiff wave.

Mikey bumped his arm against mine and laughed as Bell ended the recording, handing Eleanor’s phone back to her.

“Do you mean it?” she asked Bell.

“Absolutely.” He slid his phone out of his pocket and typed what I assumed was a reminder to notify the ticket office. “Just stop by the will-call window on game day.”

Eleanor clutched her phone to her chest, her eyes shiny as her gaze moved from Bell, then Mikey, and finally me. “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you what this means to me. What it’ll mean to Pauly.”

As Eleanor floated back toward the other volunteers, Penny appeared at my side. “All right, boys. NBC’s set up by the entrance, right under the banner. We’re looking at a quick Q&A—ten minutes tops. Remember your talking points.” She spun on her heel without waiting for an answer, clearly expecting us to follow.

“Ten bucks says they don’t ask me a single question,” Mikey murmured as we trailed her toward a man who was obviously the reporter. Ten feet away, a cameraman was busy adjusting his camera, wiping down the lens with a microfiber cloth.

“Hey, Bell,” the reporter said, offering his hand in greeting. “Thanks for agreeing to a few questions.”

“No problem, Curt. Thanks for coming out.”

“Yeah, of course,” Curt said, backing up onto a white ‘X’ marked on the floor with tape. “If you guys want to just stand right there—” He gestured toward a parallel strip of tape a few feet away.

We moved into the indicated space—Bell closest, then me, with Mikey taking up the spot to my left. Then Curt straightened his shoulders and locked a blindingly white smile into place. The cameraman held up three fingers, calling out, “Rolling in three—” dropping to two fingers, then one, and silently pointing his index finger at us.

“This is Curt McMasters,” Curt began, his voice dropping an octave. “And I’m here at the Portland Food Bank with Stryker Bell, Hunter Callahan, and Michael Porter of the Maine Marauders, who’ve spent the day working alongside volunteers here.”

He angled his body toward Bell, lifting the mic so it was closer to his mouth. “You’ve had three wins in a row heading into a tough, post-holiday Western Conference swing, starting with the Pacific division leaders. How’re you all feeling about your chances?”

Bell offered the type of response you’d expect from a seasoned captain about momentum, trusting in the system, and taking it one game at a time before Curt turned his attention to me.

“Hunter, the power play has improved over this last stretch of games. Why is that?”

“It’s all about efficiency. More time with the puck in the offensive zone leads to better scoring chances,” I said, succinctly. No one watching at home cared about the mechanics behind our improvement.

“Can you break that down for me?”

“No.”

Curt blinked. “Okay, um …”

“One more question,” Penny said from beside the cameraman, widening her eyes and tilting her head suspiciously my way.

I recognized that look immediately. It was the exact same one she’d given the reporter who’d blindsided me during the media scrum last month.

I stiffened. Don’t do it, Curt, I prayed internally. Just wrap it up.

Curt’s smile slipped back into place. “Okay, let’s talk about your dad for a second. For those of you just now tuning in, I’m with hockey legend Robert Callahan’s son, Hunter Callahan, and his Marauders teammates, Stryker Bell and Matthew Porter.”

“It’s Michael,” I corrected, grinding my molars together to keep from adding, “you fucking hack.”

“Right, Michael Porter,” Curt amended before launching back in. “With the NHL’s mandatory three-day Christmas break coming up, I’m sure you’ll be shipping down to Boston—” he gave the camera a sly wink “— to spend the holiday with your parents. Do you expect your dad will have additional insight into the team’s turnaround.”