Chapter 7
Seven
Camden
Hell, probably me more than most, considering I just played my best game of the season. And I did it in front of Logan, which, funnily enough, makes me even more proud…and also wonder if maybe I need to start a new superstition of my own.
“I still can’t believe you snagged that bullet from Davidson, Steele,” Brody says before slapping me on the shoulderpads. “I thought for sure they were gonna tie it up on that one.”
“Ye of little faith, Andrews,” I joke before giving him a shove with my forearm. “I’m offended you doubt my skills.”
“Yeah, yeah. I should know better by now,” he teases, waving me off.
I strip out of my jersey and pads, chatting with him about the game, when Coach gathers the team for a quick word.
As expected, it’s just to give us his typical “congrats on the win, now don’t do anything stupid while you celebrate” speech before releasing us to shower and head out for the night, but before I can go back to showering and changing, he pulls me aside.
“You did a great job defending the net tonight, Steele.”
I grin and nod. “Thanks, Coach. Means a lot.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, pursing his lips for a moment. “I just got off the phone with Louis, and he wants you at the post-game press conference tonight. You played great, and we feel getting you in front of the camera in a positive light may help the whole…video situation.”
I blink at him a couple times, not sure I heard him correctly.
Sure, he and Louis talked about getting me in front of the press when shit hit the fan with the video, but I thought they’d have me do something else. Like help with the Christmas toy drive or something, not post-game interviews.
Mostly because I haven’t been allowed to do a press conference since the playoffs sophomore year, where I promptly told one of the reporters we clapped their cheeks harder than a headboard at a cheap motel.
And despite completing the media training course three additional times, they still haven’t put me in front of a camera since.
Until now, apparently.
Coach must read the apprehension on my face, because his palm lands on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.
“Don’t overthink it. Just go out there and talk about the game. Think of this as practice for next year, all right?”
I nod, still not convinced this is a good idea. But if this is what they think is best, who am I to question it?
Doing my best to hide my uncertainty, I ask, “And if they bring up the video? What then?”
His lips pinch together tightly, clearly having his own doubts about this idea of Louis’s.
“Do your best to reroute the answer to the game. We’re here to talk hockey, first and foremost. And if that isn’t satisfactory, I’ll be there to step in,” he promises, giving me the smallest amount of reassurance.
“Plus, I’ve got Andrews going out there with you.
Lean on him if you need to; that’s what a captain is for.
Now, go get showered, and I’ll let the press know to expect you both in ten. ”
Nausea slams into me in waves as I strip down and head for the shower, doing my best to recall everything Coach said, and more importantly, remember what I learned in media training.
Of course, now that I’m in my hour of need, I can’t seem to remember a goddamn thing except to enunciate as I speak and use eye contact.
Fuck. Apparently, I could’ve used a fifth round in that course.
I quickly redress, donning a Leighton Hockey hoodie, before heading out of the locker room to the press room. Brody is waiting near the door, and unlike me, he’s cool as a cucumber, scrolling on his phone when I finally saddle up beside him.
“You ready for this?” he asks when he notices me.
I blow out a long breath and shake my head. “Not a chance, Cap, but let’s do it.”
“I’ve got your back. Don’t worry.”
Andrews fields his questions with ease, being captain making him a seasoned veteran when it comes to post-game interviews.
Which is probably the reason Coach threw me in here with him—to be of some guidance.
And it works…for the most part. But then a female reporter throws the whole goddamn vibe outta whack by bringing up the video.
“Camden, can you tell us how your time on the ice has been affected since this video scandal leaked?”
There’s a beat of silence where I bite my tongue, remembering what Coach told me in the locker room about rerouting them back to the game.
“I think the way I played tonight should answer that question for me,” I reply, somehow managing to keep my voice clear and steady as I speak into the mic.
I catch Coach out of my periphery, giving a slight nod, and the approval eases the tension coiled in my gut ever so slightly.
See? You can do this.
“Yes, but this must have impacted your focus.”
“Again, I think the way I played tonight says more than I can with words.” I say, repeating my previous statement before remembering another key from media training: Don’t be defensive.
“When I suit up and leave the locker room, I also leave behind the real world and any personal problems I might be having off the ice. I want a clear head when I’m defending the net, and I think that showed tonight. ”
“So you are admitting the video has caused problems off the ice,” another reporter confirms, taking the mere scrap I left dangling and running with it.
Shit.
“I don’t think that was a question,” I reply calmly, despite my heartrate kicking up a notch.
“Your agent is Louis Spaulding, who has a wonderful reputation within the NHL. Are either of you concerned about the new playboy-boy image this has created? Perhaps how it may affect your prospects for next year?”
“You’re acting as if it’s some sort of sex tape or that I’ve been accused of assaulting someone when neither are the case,” I respond immediately, the words coming out before I can filter them properly.
So much for not being defensive.
From the corner of my eye, I catch movement from Coach—his hand slowly raising to cover his mouth—and I know that was the wrong move. So, I do the best I can to salvage the situation, and pray like hell it doesn’t make it even worse.
“As far as I’m concerned, the video was a private, consensual moment between myself and the other person on that call.
It’s a moment that should have never been made public but unfortunately was.
But despite the light it might cast on me, I have to believe any prospective teams would put more stock into my ability on the ice when it comes to the draft in June. ”
“So you think your reputation shouldn’t be a factor?” the female reporter presses.
“I think I’m here to play hockey, and after the game, I’m here to talk to you about playing hockey. My personal life shouldn’t even enter the equation during press interviews, let alone—”
“All right, I think we’re just about out of time for these guys,” Coach says, appearing at my side out of nowhere to speak into my mic. And from his clipped tone and the way he cut me off, he’s clearly of the mindset that it’s time I shut up before I do even more damage.
Brody is already rising from his seat at the table, waving to the reporters, and heading out. Unfortunately, for me, I’m still slightly boxed in by Coach’s broad form while he continues talking to the press—most of whom are muttering and grumbling about their time being abruptly cut short.
“Thank you, ladies and gentleman. The guys and I are sorry to end things early, but we’ll see you again after the next game.”
Coach shifts slightly out of the way, making room for me to slide past him.
“I don’t mind. I think my boyfriend is waiting for me anyway,” I mutter under my breath.
A harmless statement—one meant for no one else’s ears—but I realize a second after speaking it, the mic is still hot.
Fuck me so fucking hard.
The reporters go wild, of course, jumping at the chance to get more info. I hear countless questions shouted in my direction all at once; some about my sexuality, whether this is my way of coming out, that kinda shit.
But the woman who was grilling me earlier is loudest of all, shouting, “Camden! Will you at least tell us who your boyfriend is?”
Didn’t I just say my personal life was off-limits?
But is this relationship still considered my personal life if it’s not real? More importantly, wasn’t the entire point of this PR relationship to make me look better in the eyes of the press and NHL managers?
That thought alone has me leaning back toward the mic, giving them the juicy detail they need.
“My boyfriend is Logan Reed.”
The answer causes even more pandemonium to ensue, and despite Coach clearly calling for the end of the press conference, more and more questions are thrown at me in rapid-fire succession, making it impossible to catch every single one.
“Is he who the video was initially for?”
“What does Coach Reed think about your relationship with his nephew?”
“Are you attaching yourself to the Reed name to further your NHL prospects?”
The last one—once again from the same woman reporter—pisses me off the second I hear it. I take it as my cue to exit stage left and get the hell out of here, preferably before I end up cussing her out with God knows how many cameras on me.
I quickly push past Coach, who grabs for my arm with an expression of shock and bewilderment.
“Steele—”
“Sorry, Coach,” I say, brushing him off. “I really gotta go find Logan.”
Hopefully before he hears I outed us on television for the entire internet to see.
While I thought Logan would be in the hallway by the locker rooms—the spot where all the family members and significant others wait after games—after I snuck out of the press room, he’s nowhere to be found.
Just as well, honestly. There’s a good chance one of those bloodhound reporters would wind up seeing us before I have the chance to tell him what happened.