Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
“Like Lego?” asks Patrick. He’s not bright, but he’s a great guy.
“Yes, like Lego,” Beckett says solemnly. “They want to interview you about building Lego hockey men.”
I open the message thread and stifle my disappointment. Still no response from Charlie. Last night, Beck and I extended an invitation to meet up for real, and it’s been crickets ever since.
“Guys, it’s just a puff piece, all right?” I set my phone on the top shelf of my locker and turn to face my teammates. “My father wants to show his constituents that his son is an upstanding college boy with upstanding college friends on their upstanding college hockey team. That’s all.”
Coach Jensen enters the locker room with our assistant coaches, Maran and Peretti. I take one look at his face and know he’s pissed off.
The source of that anger saunters in a second later: the producer of the video part of this shit show my dad has inflicted upon us.
Her name is Marjorie Neven, and she’s a tall, skinny blond in her fifties whose face doesn’t move. Literally. I can’t tell if she’s happy, mad, sad, disappointed. Her facial muscles are frozen in place by what must be pounds of filler.
She walks up wearing a powder-blue pantsuit and an excessive amount of gold jewelry that keeps catching the fluorescent lights, hurting my eyes.
“All right, boys,” Marjorie says, either smiling or frowning. “We’re going to shoot some more B-roll tonight of you getting into uniform, so no one take your pants off yet. Shirts are okay.”
“You mean this isn’t going to be full frontal?” Beckett drawls, making a big show of unzipping his jeans.
Nobody’s immune to his charm. Not even a fifty-something producer who clearly hasn’t gotten laid in at least twenty-five of those fifty years.
She titters with delight at his lewd remark. “As appealing as that would be to the female demographic—”
“And the LGBTQ+ demo,” says the cameraman.
“—I’m afraid that this is a family show,” she finishes.
Beck winks at her. “Their loss.”
Marjorie claps her hands. “All right, everyone. Ignore the camera—it’s not here. Act natural. Pretend like you’re getting ready for the game.”
Coach growls from the doorway. “They are getting ready for the game.”
“I know. I just mean—” She notices his face, that deadly Jensen stare, and stops talking.
“Listen, lady.”
Uh-oh, Coach busted out the lady. From the corner of my eye, I see Shane struggling not to laugh.
“You’re here as a courtesy,” Coach continues irritably. “We are under no obligation to let you into the locker room and invade the privacy of my men.”
She’s brave enough to voice a protest. “They all signed releases—”
“They didn’t know what the fuck they were signing. They’re idiots.”
Shane snorts loudly from his locker, no longer able to contain it.
“You’re distracting us, lady. Warm-ups are about to start. My men need their heads in the game. So get on with your little ‘segment.’” He uses air quotes. “Get your ‘B-roll,’ and get the hell out.”
With that, he stalks across the room toward the corridor leading to the PT rooms.
“I think I made him mad,” Marjorie says, looking around uncertainly.
“That’s just his personality,” Case assures her. “But yeah, I suggest you get your shots quick.”
My irritation only grows as the cameraman starts filming our pregame prep, being as intrusive as he possibly can. Meanwhile, we all “pretend” AKA actually get ready while Marjorie orders us not to look directly at the camera.
I’m on the bench, lacing up my skates, when Marjorie’s shadow falls over me. “William. Is this a good time to ask you a few questions?”
No, lady. It’s fucking not. I’m about to face one of the toughest opponents in our conference.
“Sure,” I lie.
She clips a tiny mic to the collar of my jersey, then steps out of the frame as the camera lens focuses on me. I expect a softball question.
“Tell me, William, do you think hazing is a necessary part of team bonding, or is it an outdated and harmful tradition?”
That was not a softball.
I tamp down my annoyance. “We don’t do hazing of any kind at Briar. Never have, as far as I know.”
“Then you haven’t experienced any hazing rituals during your three years here?”
“Nope.”
Marjorie throws me another hardball. “Hockey is known for its physicality. Do you think the level of violence on the ice has crossed the line in recent years?”
“Seriously? Look, I’m about to play three periods of hockey. It’s a mental game. And I don’t have the brainpower to waste on these questions.”
“It’s a violent sport,” she points out. “The fights—”
“There’s no fighting in NCAA hockey. They’re strict about that shit.”
Marjorie winces. “Can you repeat that without the profanity?”
I grit my teeth. “I’m done. I need to focus.”
“What if I feed you the lines?”
A laugh flies out. “Are you serious?”
“Your father sent us some talking points, all right?” She looks as annoyed as I feel. “So just put on a solemn face and say this: As athletes, we know that a lot of young players and fans look up to us, and that’s something we take seriously—”