AllFreeNovel
Share Us
ME:
I’ll try not to.
GISELE:
Good. Now go get something to eat and try not to overdo it during morning skate. Save it for the game.
ME:
I will. Love you.
GISELE:
Love you too.
I do my best to keep my mind relaxed, my body loose. After a very light game-day skate, I make my way to the hotel conference room for the press event.
Dread rises as I near the door. Fuck. I don’t want to do this. But I’m not going to run from it. I’m not a coward.
The moment I slide through the door, Coach Jensen pulls me aside and says, “Anything you don’t want to answer, just say, ‘No comment,’ understood?”
I nod.
“Don’t feel bad about it or explain why you’re not commenting. ‘No comment.’ Period, end of sentence.”
“Yessir.”
Two long tables are set up at the head of the spacious room with a podium between them. I settle in a chair between Colson and Demaine. Coach sits at the far end of the table, a slim binder in front of him. Talking points courtesy of Briar’s PR gurus, I assume.
At the Arizona table is their head coach, team captain, and two assistant captains, one of whom is Michael Klein. I don’t even spare the curly-haired guy a look. I sense him watching me, but he doesn’t deserve acknowledgment.
To my relief, the first question, posed by a college sports blog, is about Briar’s season and how we turned it around to reach this point. Colson fields that one. He’s good with the crowd. Easygoing and articulate. The next question is directed at the Arizona captain. I’m starting to think I’ll get out of this unscathed when a female journalist addresses me.
“Some very shocking details were revealed about your family yesterday. Do you believe this will affect your mental state today?”
Jensen looks ready to intervene, but I lean toward the microphone to answer. “You say ‘shocking’ and ‘were revealed’ as if my background was a secret, something I was trying to keep hidden. It wasn’t. Anyone with a computer or phone could have known about my family history prior to yesterday. The fact that a bunch of people are talking about it now makes no difference to me. My head is always in the game.”
Shockingly, she drops it and nobody else asks about my parents.
One annoying reporter, however, does decide to bring up the other elephant in the room.
“Michael, the last time you and Luke were on the ice together, you were teammates in the World Juniors. That particular encounter ended poorly, is that fair to say?”
“Poorly?” he echoes derisively. “I ended up in the hospital.”
“It’s evident there’s still plenty of residual tension here,” the intrepid reporter hedges, looking between us. “Have you two spoken since Worlds, and have or are you willing to bury the hatchet?”
Klein just laughs into the mic.
The sound is grating and raises my hackles. Asshole.
I’m not the only one irritated by him. From the corner of my eye, I see Case lean into his microphone.
“I have a question,” Colson says. With a raised eyebrow, he looks toward the Arizona table. “For you, Klein.”
My former teammate narrows his eyes. His coach tries to intercede, but Colson speaks before he can.
“What’d you say to Ryder in the locker room to get your jaw broken? Because I’ve played with this guy all season, and he’s got the patience of a saint and the composure of a brick wall.”
There’s a beat of silence. Klein notices the room watching him intently and realizes he needs to provide some sort of answer.
Finally, he speaks through gritted teeth. “I don’t recall what was said that day.”
A curious woman in the front row addresses me. “Do you recall what was said, Luke?”
I flick my gaze toward Klein. Normally I would keep my mouth shut. Avoid the petty temptation. But his mocking laughter still rings in my ears. And this stain on my record that’s followed me for years has finally become too much to bear.
Being with Gigi has taught me that sometimes you simply need to let things out, so I shrug, moving close to the mic again.
“He said my mom deserved to die and that my father should’ve shot me in the head too.”
My response brings a whole lot of silence.
A few of the journalists look startled; others appear disgusted. In his seat, Klein’s face is bright red. His hand fumbles for the base of the mic, but his coach shakes his head in warning as if to say, Not a fucking word. Because nothing good will come out of Michael Klein trying to defend those statements.
I remember it vividly, though. Still hear it knocking around in my head sometimes.
Michael and I were always butting heads. Our personalities just never meshed from the get-go, mostly because Klein has a hair-trigger temper and an insecurity-fueled need to be the big banana. He wanted to be recognized as the best player on the team and was furious that I was better than him. We won the World Juniors because of the goal I scored. That ate him up inside.
