“Yaaaaas, kids!” Stoney yells as we skate toward the handshake line. “I’m buying a round at Sportsballs! Hey, Calgary! You’re invited, too—if you’ve never been to a gay sports bar, you haven’t lived. I’m super popular there.” He says this all with a big smile.
This team is #goals. I’d better be invited back someday, and I think I just improved my chances of that.
“I’m good for a beer, if Stoney’s buying,” Kapski says. He thwacks me on the back. “Right after your press interviews, rookie. I see ’em hovering in the tunnel already.”
Oh God. Interviews? I have the brain power of a sea sponge right now. And that might be an insult to sea sponges.
This could get very awkward, very fast.
Kapski takes the first interviews in the tunnel, and I manage to slide past the cameras and microphones and make it to the showers.
The Cougars have a sweet locker room, by the way, with a sound system playing tunes even in the shower and premium men’s products in the stall. I don’t know what tonka bean is, but I smell like it now.
I dry off with a big, fluffy towel and make my way back to my stall where I start to get dressed. My adrenaline is crashing, and I need my post-game chicken sandwich really badly.
A quick glance at my phone shows me twelve excited texts from my Ice Cats teammates and a Good job honey from my mother.
Not one from Forest though. Not a single one.
I turn my phone face down, so I don’t have to think about it, and I pull on my shirt.
The PR guy hustles over. I know who he is even before he introduces himself, because his suit is perfectly pressed and his teeth are extra shiny. He confirms his identity by informing me that the press conference starts in seven minutes. “And you’re the guest of honor,” he says.
“Press conference,” I say dully. “With, like, chairs and a lectern?”
His expression wonders which planet I’ve dropped in from. “That’s the general setup, yes. Don’t sweat it, though. They just want to hear you say how excited you were to get the call-up, and how good it feels to help the Cougars win a game. Someone will probably ask if you feel ready to support the team into the playoffs, and you’ll say yes.”
“See, you make it sound so easy. But as soon as someone shoves a microphone in my face, I lose feeling in my face. That’s when the word vomit starts.”
His smile dulls a fraction. “But not actual vomit, right?”
“If I weren’t so hungry right now, we couldn’t rule that out.”
He gives me a weird look and then stands there watching me tie my tie, as if he isn’t sure I can do it myself.
As soon as I’m presentable, he has me follow him into a windowless room where the postgame pressers happen. Honestly, I feel a little cheated, because this place looks more glamorous on television. I sit down in my metal folding chair, feeling like a prisoner in front of the firing squad. A number of journalists and photographers crowd in, and then Coach Powers and Kapski take the seats on either side of me.
Coach Powers opens with a short, no-nonsense intro. “We’re proud of the team tonight. Everyone battled. Becker James gave us a hell of a performance in his NHL debut—big stops, calm presence, and a well-earned win. We’ll open it up to questions now.”
The first question comes fast. “Beck, what was going through your head when you stepped onto NHL ice for the first time tonight?”
I open my mouth. Close it again.
The real answer is something like: Don’t fall. Don’t forget how to play hockey. Why does my helmet feel like it’s on sideways?
But none of that will sound good in print. “Um…” I swallow hard. “I was hoping the regulars at my favorite bar were watching.”
Polite laughter follows, so I guess that wasn’t too terrible.
The next question comes immediately from a guy with a notebook instead of a handheld recorder and a voice like he’s been doing this since before I was born. “Beck, there’s been some chatter on the AHL circuit about your uneven performance this season. But you were a rock tonight. Did you have something to prove?”
And my brain just… blanks.
My mouth opens again, but this time nothing comes out. I glance at Coach Powers, but he stays politely still, letting me handle it. Kapski doesn’t move either. They’re letting me stand on my own two feet here.
Oh God. Seconds tick by. The silence throbs.
That’s when I spot a guy easing into the door at the back of the room. He’s standing against the wall, and he’s wearing a flannel shirt.
