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The questions are painful, each one a stabbing needle of inquiry. The room spins as the noise crescendos, my heart pounding in my ears. I drop my hands to my lap so the vultures can’t see me clenching my fists in anger. My skin prickles with the need to do violence because these assholes aren’t here for the hockey.
They’re here for the drama, for the man whose life has been a spectacle of tragedies.
I knew this was going to happen and it was still a better choice than staying with Simone. I’d rather be subjected to this every day than have another moment inside the home I built with my wife because that had become too painful to deal with.
A thunderous voice booms through the chaos. “Enough!” Callum snarls as he pounds his fist on the table, his face flushed with anger. “This is a hockey press conference, not a tabloid interrogation. If you can’t keep your questions related to the game, the team or Van’s professional career, you can leave.”
His words hang heavy in the air, casting a noticeable chill over the reporters. The cacophony is replaced by a sudden, deafening quiet. I release a held breath, grateful for the respite.
Suddenly, the spotlight seems less glaring, the weight on my shoulders a touch lighter. But as the echoes of the questions linger, I know my fight has only just begun. I’m back in the game, back in the limelight, and now more than ever, I need to hold my ground.
“Now,” Callum says, his tone calm but brooking no nonsense. “Is there one last appropriate question that someone would like to ask?”
For a moment, no one moves.
No one says a thing.
Then another female reporter stands from the back row. She looks like she just stepped out of a beauty magazine with perfect facial features and expertly coiffed hair. She must be an on-camera personality. “Van… no doubt you’ve followed the Titans this season. They’re poised to roll into the playoffs at the top of their division. What do you think you bring to the team that could help them clinch a championship?”
Finally… a fucking question that makes sense. For the first time, my smile is genuine. “I bring experience. This team is young and while incredibly well meshed, the playoffs are an entirely different creature than the regular season. I know the stressors that come with the territory and I’m hoping more than anything to be a guide and a resource. Of course, I’m still ready to pound anyone who threatens one of my teammates.”
That gets a laugh from nearly everyone and the tension in me melts a little more. Thankfully, Coach West stands up. “Unfortunately, we do have a practice to get to. Thank you everyone for attending.”
I waste no time following Coach out the door, ignoring questions being yelled in the hopes I’ll answer just one more.
The last one I hear before exiting hits me hard. “Van… Van… what do Lucas and Max Fournier think about your return? What will it be like battling against them?”
It’s going to be a pisser because I’m sure they both want to kick my ass for what I did to Simone. Our last argument before I left home was bitter and I said hateful things to push her away. I know my barbs hit the mark because her French Canadien accent, usually so very light and melodic, had become thick from the emotion. Whereas her brothers, who had left Montreal when they were young, had all but lost their accent, Simone wore hers like a badge of armor. It was always the tell when I knew I’d really pissed her off.
But Max and Lucas are not the ones I’m worried about. It’s the youngest of the Fournier brothers, Malik, who I have to be wary of. He just happens to live here in Pittsburgh, is former Special Forces and currently works for a world-renowned security company where he’s operated as a paid mercenary. He’s probably got a dozen different ways to torture and make me suffer and then could easily hide my body.
I’d deserve it too.
♦
The locker roomis filled with the familiar post-practice symphony, and I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until just now. The clatter of gear, the murmur of conversation, the occasional echo of laughter.
After my shower, I return to my locker, toweling my hair dry as I maneuver through.
Practice was good. Damn good, actually.
While I kept myself in shape and ran drills all the time with my league and the Dartmouth team, I did harbor a tiny bit of worry that maybe it still wouldn’t have been enough to play at the professional level again. That personal concern has been put to rest and my new teammates have been offering hardy congratulations on my return.
Boone Rivers, our first-line right-winger, has his cubby next to mine. He’s almost fully dressed, tugging down his T-shirt as I step up next to him. On the other side of him is Foster MacInnis, the second-line center already lacing up his shoes, his brows furrowed in concentration.
I drop my towel and reach for my clothes. Nothing strange about being butt-ass naked in front of these strangers. That’s just part of the sport.
“How’d you feel out there?” Boone asks, breaking the silence between us. His voice carries a note of easy camaraderie.
“Good,” I reply, casting him a glance before pulling on my boxers. “I obviously need to get up to speed on the playbook.”
“You’ll get there.”
“It felt great to be back on the ice,” I admit, donning my jeans. About the only thing worth anything I have going for me these days. “But I felt a little rusty to be playing at your level.”
“You didn’t look rusty,” Foster chimes in, glancing up from his laces. “In fact, you looked slick as hell out there. That assist you fed me was off the hook.”
“Thanks,” I respond, a slight smile playing at the corners of my mouth as I treasure the thrill of the game sparking back to life within me. It burns bright against the barren emptiness.
