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"Thank you, Erik," I whisper to him as the meeting breaks up.
"Do not thank me yet. I think your plan will not work. I will laugh if you fall on your face, hey?" Erik gives me a wicked grin and claps me on the shoulder hard enough to make my arm go numb.
"I'm glad he's on our side," Sawyer mutters as Erik walks away to suit up.
"Is he?" I ask, chuckling as the team captain rolls his eyes.
I get the puck.
I get the puck all damn night. Every single pass is to me. Every shot is made by me.
Every eye is on me.
It would have been a crazy high to feel this much pressure last week. The crowd is cheering, clapping, roaring for me. I can feel the weight of it, the sharp intake of breath from thousands of people every time I shoot.
Last week, it would have been too much. I would have ended up drunk on it, sloppy, showboating. Before her. Before Sofie.
Her eyes are the only ones I care about.
After every shot, I skate by and give her a look. After every goal, I blow her a kiss. There's even a collective 'aww' from the crowd by the end of the game.
I know she says she hates the spotlight, but she doesn't. Not really. She's been at enough games for me to know that crowds aren't her problem. It's negative attention. People judging and staring.
Well, I'm about to fix that.
We won 7-2. It was never even close.
Coach Owen Morgan gives me a look as I change out of my kit. I sold him on my plan first. Without his support, it wouldn't go anywhere. Coach is really good at looks. This one says 'You got one chance, Parker. Don't screw it up'.
We hit the press conference immediately after the game, just me and Coach. There isn't really anyone else to talk to.
"Parker has something he wants to say," Coach Morgan says without preamble.
There are flashes, cameras, and questions, but I wait until all three have died down before I say my piece.
"Tonight was an exception. I asked my team to help me out, give me all the passes. I wanted a chance to talk to you where you had to listen. Last night, some of you ambushed me while I was out on a date."
I work to keep my voice smooth and calm, but beneath the surface, black rage is boiling away inside me. How dare they make Sofie feel that way for even a second?
"This team is different in a lot of ways. We're new, and we're learning, and we're kind of making it up as we go along. I'm not here tonight to answer any questions. My play, the team's play, it speaks for itself. I'm here tonight to tell you how it's going to be. In here, we'll talk to you as much as you want. But if we see a flash, we smell a reporter, we so much as breathe in a camera? We're going to lock you out."
There's quiet silence throughout the room. You could hear a puck drop. Even the constant shutter-click of cameras slows to a stop.
"You can't do tha —" someone starts to say. Someone I recognize from last night.
"Want to bet?" I cut him off, my temper flaring as my control slips. "You know, I always look forward to this sort of thing. I like talking to people. Fans. But you? You're not people. You're vultures, circling around, waiting for your next meal. Well, we're not going to feed you."
With that, I stand up and walk away from the press conference table.
There's a rush of questions, but Coach cuts them all off with a wave of his hand.
"Just to be clear, this is not just a fit of pique from Mr. Knight. This is now official Snowhawks' policy. We respect the lives of our players, both on and off the ice."
Then he gets up and leaves, too. Leaving a room full of stunned paparazzi to do whatever it is they do when they're not being scum.
"Thanks, Coach," I say, offering him my hand to shake as he steps with me into a back hallway.
"I just hope this works," he says with a sigh. "What if they call our bluff?"
