Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Instead, I turn my back. My blood is boiling as I step over the wall, one skate at a time, hands heavy on my stick. My chest is heaving from anger as much as exhaustion. I want nothing more than to destroy something or someone.
Anything will do.
I need to get off the ice and into the locker room. I need to get away from the lights and the noise and the expectation that I’m a better human than people usually give me credit for.
I’m halfway toward the tunnel when a voice cuts through everything. “Grizz! Grizz! Over here—Grizz!”
A TV reporter, perched by the bench with a mic in her hand and a camera operator already angling the lens. Her eyes are bright, hungry, but the last thing I want is a microphone in my face, so I ignore her, turning toward the tunnel.
And nearly run Daisy over. I see the empathy in her eyes for the loss, for that failed goal. But I also see that she’s in business mode, her expression calm and controlled, bracing for impact and trying to prevent the building from collapsing.
I keep moving, stepping past her.
“Grizz,” Daisy calls, her hand grabbing onto the sleeve of my sweater, and I’m forced to stop. Her voice is patient but stern. “Nationally televised game. They get one postgame interview with whoever they want. You know the deal, same as always.”
I stare at her as though I don’t recognize her. “Now?” I grind out, my fury refusing to dissipate.
“I know,” she says, quick. “But yes. Now.”
My anger sloshes around inside me, looking for somewhere to go. I want to shove it into the locker room, into the walls, my gloves. I want to swallow it whole.
Instead, I turn toward the reporter because the cameras are already on me and because Daisy is right, and because in this league you don’t just play hockey—you perform compliance.
The reporter smiles. “Grizz McAvoy,” she says, mic lifted. “Tough loss tonight. We’re live—” She shoots a look at the camera operator. “Roll it.”
A red light blinks on the camera. The building’s noise fades into a distant roar. All I hear is my own breathing.
“So, Grizz,” she says brightly, “what’s your overall takeaway from this game?”
I blink at her. I can feel sweat cooling under my gear, turning clammy. “We didn’t get it done,” I say. “We had chances. We didn’t finish.”
She nods like that’s adorable.
“And the ending there,” she presses, eyes narrowing. “You had a wide-open look at the net in the final seconds. What happened?”
My jaw flexes. “Puck bounced.”
“Just a bad hop?”
“Yep.”
She leans in a fraction. “You looked frustrated. Were you rattled by the physical play? We saw a lot of contact from Buffalo—especially number 15.”
I can feel Daisy’s presence beside me, like a hand hovering over a switch. I know what she wants: Don’t. I know what she needs: Control.
The reporter keeps her smile, but her eyes are knives. “Do you think the referees let too much go tonight?”
I stare at her. My grip tightens around my stick. “No comment.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “No comment. Okay. But fans are going to wonder—do you think that impacted your ability to make the play at the end?”
Something in me snaps, like a tendon overstretched.
I feel the cheap shot on my legs again. I feel the skipped puck. I feel the scoreboard. I feel number 15’s mouth near my ear, spitting that word.
I look straight into the camera. “The league lets some fuckwad take cheap shots at me all game,” I say, voice flat and deadly. “That makes it hard to do my job out there. It’s a complete fuckin’ joke.”
The reporter’s eyes widen and her smile dies.
For a second the whole world pauses because everyone knows what happens next.
She clears her throat too loudly. “All right—Grizz McAvoy, thanks for your time,” she says, rushing. “Back to you in the booth—”
The red light goes off and the second it does, I turn away like the interview never happened.
I’m already moving toward the tunnel when a hand clamps around my arm.
Daisy.
Her fingers are firm, nails pressing through my sleeve. She pulls me just enough to stop me.
“What was that, Grizz?” she demands.
I whip my head around. “It was a bullshit question,” I bite back. “She was trying to provoke me.”
Daisy’s eyes flash. “And you handed her exactly what she wanted.”
“It’s the truth,” I spit.
Her grip tightens. “It’s a nationally televised game. You can’t say that on live TV.”
“Why not?” My voice rises, and I don’t care that players and staff are filing past us, that the bench area is still full of movement and noise. “Why not call it what it is? Why does he get to whack me behind the knees and skate away grinning while I’m supposed to—what—smile for the camera?”
Daisy’s nostrils flare. She drags in a breath, and when she speaks again, it’s like she’s fighting to keep her tone even. “This isn’t just about you, Grizz,” she says. “It’s about more than you.”