Page 12 of Home of the Brave

Then there were the men.

They avoided. They dodged. They acted as if we were hounding them for something other than a few words.

It was strange because most people assumed hockey players were like other athletes: crass, attention-hungry, or prima donnas.

Nope.

Hockey players, in general, wanted nothing to do with cameras. They were quiet, reserved, and just wanted to play their sport without the add ons.

But there were necessary add-ons!

Press was needed. Media was needed. Fans wanted to get to know the individuals on their favorite teams.

Yet, they acted like it was physically painful for them to speak to us.

You’d find one ham every once in a while. The one guy who actually wanted to talk and do commercials and chit-chat without wincing.

Those were the superstars. Household names.

Unfortunately, those were one-in-a-generation types.

The NBA had it so good.

Even the NFL had divas who craved the spotlight.

Not here.

It was like we were the enemy.

Which we were not. In this sport, most of the journalists and commentators were previous players.

I hated getting quotes during or after games when I was assigned NHL games. I could predict word for word the responses I’d get without even having to ask.

It was always ‘we,’ never just the player. Whether the whole team was playing well or poorly, they took accountability as a whole.

I did like that, but it made their comments repetitive.

“Victoria?” Miles took a step toward the mayhem, and I groaned quietly before leading the way over.

Break the ice, get them used to my face, remind them I’m a friend, not a foe.

“Let’s head this way.” I guided him along the crowd to a less busy area the players would have to pass in order to get to the elevators. “We can wait for them here.”

“Good call.” Miles scoped out the angles he could get while I pretended this wasn’t an excuse to delay the inevitable.

Most of these guys were great. I’d worked with them before and even hung out with quite a few during the Olympics.

There were some I wasn’t too fond of, and for some reason, the feeling seemed mutual. Maybe it was the East Coast versus West Coast thing. I just got along well with those who understood my New England roots.

Fortunately, it seemed the East team, or the Stripes as they were called for this tournament, had arrived first.

“Vicky!” Otto Stagmeier called as he hurried over and pulled me in for a quick side hug. “How’ve you been?”

I pulled back with narrowed eyes. “Don’t say that so loud. You’re the only one who gets to call me that.”

He’d decided he’d earned the right to a nickname a few years back when he happened to block a puck from hitting me in the side of my head during a pregame interview. Sure, it was heroic, and I owed him for saving me from pain, if not more, but Vicky was my childhood moniker that usually came with Icky.

Miles chuckled behind me. “I was bracing to drag you away. I’m shocked you just stood there.”