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CHAPTER ONE
Harris
“After starting the season off strong,” the reporter says into the microphone at my pre-game press conference, “the San Antonio Hyenas are in a four-game losing streak. People are starting to put the blame on you. They say you’ve lost your edge. That the great Harris Sutton is not the same player he once was.”
He just stares at me, waiting for a comment.
“Is there a question in there?” I ask while glaring at him.
I hate these fucking things. I’m sitting at a table with about twelve microphones in my face while all these sports media ‘journalists’ and writers grill me with their stupid questions.
I want to be done with all of it, but every player is obligated to get their time in with the media. Press conferences before games, after games, one-on-one interviews with these out of shape suits with their journalism degrees who think they’re hockey experts because they watched a few games. Most of them have never even held a stick and can’t skate.
“Do you think it’s time to retire?” the guy asks. I know him. He’s always writing shit about me in his articles, saying I’m washed up.
“No comment.”
Another reporter stands up. He’s a writer on Hockey Wrap-Up, a nightly thirty-minute show that sums up all the hockey news of the day.
“You have a big game tonight,” he says as he looks at me behind those thick glasses. “The Denver Landslides. A division team. The team who passed on you during your rookie season. Are you still bitter about that?”
“It was over ten years ago,” I answer. I’m trying not to roll my eyes. These fucking guys need something to write about in their stupid articles so they’re always manufacturing fake stories. I can already tell you what the headline is going to be.
Harris Sutton Feeling Extra Pressure To Beat The Team That Rejected Him.
But maybe it’s not totally fake. I do hate the Landslides for passing on me. It’s been an extra bit of motivation over the years to prove them wrong. I still think about it when I’m trying to get one last rep on the bench press or when I’m pushing my exhausted body on the ice while it’s screaming at me to throw in the towel.
When you’re a professional athlete training all the time, you take any extra bit of motivation you can find.
“Are you feeling extra pressure to win tonight after your slew of bad games?” he asks.
“I’m a professional hockey player,” I say in a monotone voice. “There’s pressure to win every game.”
“But more tonight?”
This guy is really trying to push his narrative. He’s just trying to get a comment out of me that he can play on his show. He’s not going to get it.
“No.”
He won’t let up. “Your shot accuracy has gone down thirty-seven percent this season,” he says as he reads off his phone, “you’ve had multiple passes stolen, and your assists, goals, and shots on net are all among the lowest of your career. You’re one of the oldest players in the league. Has Father Time caught up to you? Is it time for the once-great Flamethrower to retire?”
All eyes are on me, waiting for my answer.
I sigh as I look at the time. My required fifteen minutes are up.
“I’m focused on the game tonight,” I say, giving a canned answer. “And I’m not looking past that. Winning against Denver is my only focus right now.”
They all explode into more questions, but I stand up and ignore them all. I grab my hat and leave the room as they all try to get me to give them something that will generate clicks and views.
My teammate, Austin Gambill, is waiting to go in next for his required time.
“How are they today?” he asks, looking nervous.
“Like a bunch of jackals.”
They always are whenever a team is on a losing streak.
“We have to win tonight,” he says as he peeks into the room.
