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“It feels good. I have amazing teammates that help me get the job done,” I answer.
He nods and glances down at his notes before meeting my stare again. “Any updates on your plans for next season?”
“Not any we’re ready to share yet.” I cover the slight bite in my words with a smile.
Again, he nods and sits back down. Another reporter is chosen, this time a woman with narrowed, calculating eyes. I straighten my posture.
“Rose Carpenter from Sports Weekly,” she introduces herself, her tone sharp. I subtly lift my brow, feeling cautious. “Maddox, the fans are growing restless. Are you sure you don’t want to say anything about your upcoming plans this off-season? Clear the air?”
I swallow down my discomfort. “The air doesn’t need clearing yet. We still have a season to finish here. That’s where my head is at.”
Talks about my upcoming contract aren’t the media’s business, as far as I’m concerned. But I do understand the fans’ curiosity. Vancouver is my home. Of course I want to stay here. My agent knows that. Everything else is beyond my control. There’s still a lot more hockey to play this season, including the playoff spot we clinched a couple of weeks ago. The playoffs start in just over a week, and the team is ready. Hungry.
“Despite the rocky start to your career, I’m sure the other teams are frothing at the mouth for a chance to have you. Thank you for the time.”
The woman sits down, and I grit my teeth. The dig was obvious, and I don’t like it.
Despite that, I plaster on a smile and thank her before the pressure is finally shifted to the other guys. My skin is hot as frustration bubbles beneath the surface. When will the past stop haunting my present and future?
As far as I’m concerned, what happened after I was drafted is in my rearview. I don’t dwell on it—I use it as motivation. As a reminder not to trust so easily.
Having it hinted at in front of my teammates and several media outlets isn’t ideal. It’s outright annoying. It doesn’t matter how many hundred-point seasons I have or how many times I’ve nearly brought the Warriors to the Stanley Cup finals, I’ll always be Maddox Hutton, the guy with the stick up his ass and his nose in the air.
The guy who passed on his draft team because he felt like he was “too good” for them. Assholes know nothing.
I suck in a breath when someone kicks my ankle bone beneath the table. Bentley is staring at me with a barely contained smile as I take in the emptying room.
His bleached blond hair has been freshly buzzed, and he’s freshly shaven, like always. Personally, I think he just likes to show off his jawline because he knows it’s his best feature, but while he might be vain sometimes, he’s not vain enough to admit that out loud.
“Time to go,” he says, patting my shoulder.
“Tell me I wasn’t sitting here staring off for too long.”
“Nah. You’re good.”
Thank fuck.
I push my chair back and walk beside him out the back door. Colt is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He pushes off and settles on my other side.
“That chick was harsh,” he notes, a slight Nashville twang brushing the words. It was only last season that he was traded to the VW from Nashville. He spent six years there.
Bentley grunts, “Must be new.”
We walk into the dressing room and break apart to grab our shit. I throw my bag over my shoulder, swallowing a groan at the weight of it. “There’s no reason to worry about where I’m going next season. The VW have been open about wanting to keep me.”
“Why wouldn’t they want you? You’re in your prime.” Bentley pulls his phone out of his bag and starts typing. “Wanna share an Uber back to the hotel? I’m fucking exhausted.”
“Sure,” I say. I’m running on goddamn fumes. A good long sleep sounds like heaven.
“You aren’t coming out tonight?” Colt scoffs, bag in hand, when he joins us. “You’re not taking an Uber. I’ll take you back.”
A few other players are still hanging around the room, but most of everyone is long done. This is our fourth away game in a row, and I know we’re all ready to go home. My mom has been texting me about an overdue family dinner for the past few days, and I know I won’t hear the end of it until I give her what she wants. Plus, I miss her food. Restaurants have nothing on Ma’s baked potatoes and Dad’s steak.
Bentley pushes the door open at the back entrance of the arena, holding it wide for us as we step into the underground parking garage designated for players only. Colt’s rented Escalade is up a few yards, the windows dark, too dark to see into, and lifted just enough to appear big and beefy. I half expected to see an old truck in the Escalade’s place.
“Hell no. All I want is a hefty serving of Chinese food and a good porno.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Fuck off.”
