The room breaks apart instantly. Helmets, gloves, sticks. Music cranks from a speaker in the corner. The chaos swallows everything, and I stand in the middle of it, heart rate slowly returning to something compatible with life.
Pierre gives me a thumbs-up on his way out. I flip him off. Felix laughs as they disappear toward the ice, and I’m left with the social media team and the particular silence of having survived something.
My coworker Zara nudges my arm. “Well, that was an entrance.”
“I would like to issue a formal public apology for everything that just occurred.”
“I’ve never seen hockey players so scared,” Marlowe adds.
I let out a heavy sigh. “This isn’t the first time my dumbass brothers have done something like that.”
“They mean well, and I say that because they aren’t my brothers,” Billie says with a chuckle.
“Come on, let’s head back to the office and work out how we can torture your brothers through content.” Zara laughs.
The tunnel iscold as I wait for the players with a laminated cue card in one hand and a mini mic in the other.You’ve got this.Just grab the guys as they come off the ice and ask them what they did for the summer. Easy. Fans love it.
Emmett Black, the captain, is the first one off. He looks at the mic, then at Marlowe holding the whiteboard with the question on it: ‘What did you do during the summer?”
“Went to Europe to visit my cousin,” he answers without slowing down.
“Where did you go, Cap?” I call out, making him still. He walks back.
“London, Monaco, and some other places.”
“Enjoyed the sun?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Cool, thanks. See, that was easy.” I grin. He grunts and continues walking down the tunnel.
Connor Sullivan, defenseman, also known as Sully, is right behind him. “Don’t take it personally, he’s always been that way.” He laughs. “I spent it back home in Wisconsin at my lake house. Renovated my kitchen. Tiled it myself, too.” He seems proud of this. I give him a thumbs-up because, honestly, good for him.
Bouch, also known as Marc Bouchard, center and French Canadian, lights up when he sees the camera. “Oh, this is for the fans. Bonjour les fans!” He blows a kiss directly into the lens. “I went back home to Montreal and hung out at my cottage, was one with nature.” He grins before walking off.
Nelly or Lars Nielsen, one of our stops, stares at the cue card for a long moment like it’s personally challenging him, then says, “Slept,” in his Swedish accent, and keeps moving. It’s such a goalie thing to do.
Artem Evanoff, or Evan as the boys call him, comes through, glances at the mic, glances at me, and says, “Stuff,” in his thick Russian accent and finishes it with a wink. Now I’m intrigued.
Then number twenty-two skates through the door. Justin Crawford, who the guys affectionately call Fish because he is from Maine, which is known for lobsters or crawfish, hence the nickname Fish. You never know where they get their nicknames from. I noticed him in the locker room, he is by far the hottest guy on the team. Those piercing blue eyes and dark hair are a striking combination.Be professional. Do not ogle the player.
“Quick one for socials,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “What did you do this summer?”
He slows down, looks at the cue card, looks at me, then leans toward the mic and smirks into the camera. “Worked on my game.”
Is there an innuendo in there?
He then turns those piercing blue eyes onto me. “Did you like what you saw on the ice?”
His question catches me off-guard. “I wasn’t watching.”
This makes him chuckle cockily. “Sure, you weren’t. Everyone watches me.”
Seriously? “Sorry to disappoint, but not everyone.”
Those gorgeous baby blues sweep over my body, sending the hairs on my arms standing to attention, and heat crawl up my back. “Such a shame, guess I need to try harder to grab your attention.” He winks at me before strutting off.
What just happened? I stare at my cue card, confused.