Chapter 6
PEYTON
I had to give the team staff credit—they made damn sure no cameras got anywhere near the locker room.
The one that was in here—the team’s reporter and crew—had seemed intent to keep filming, but a low growl of, “Turn that off” made them think twice.
Right now, Coach was having a very terse one-way conversation with them, and I suspected it had a vibe of “If I see this footage on any screen or device, there will be hell to pay.”
Good. Get ’em, Coach.
The team’s reporter, Falon, was nodding along and not arguing. She’d seemed like good people, and my teammates all liked her, so I had a feeling she wasn’t pushing back.
The reporters who were still out in the hallway didn’t sound pleased as Glen, our PR director, explained to them that media availability was going to be delayed. After all, they had to get these interviews on the air ASAP.
Laramie and I exchanged glances, nodded, and got up.
“Hey, Glen?” I gestured at Laramie. “We can talk to them out in the hallway. If that’ll pacify them until…” I pointed over my shoulder at our teammates.
Glen glanced past me, then nodded sharply and shooed us out into the hall, mumbling, “I owe you boys,” before shutting the door behind us.
I didn’t relish facing the media under the best of circumstances. Surrounded by lenses, microphones, and annoyed reporters in a hallway crammed with equipment boxes? Not fun at all.
But it took the pressure off Glen and our teammates, and I couldn’t lie—it got me away from the absolutely heartbreaking sight and sound of Avery collapsing under his grief.
That was seared into my mind anyway. The way he’d buried his face in his hands and leaned forward, trembling all over as the sobs wracked his whole body—helpless didn’t even describe how I’d felt in that moment.
Eminem and Baddy, sitting on either side of him, had been doing their best to comfort him.
One of the assistant coaches had joined in.
I had no idea what they’d been saying or if any of it was working—was there anything someone could do to stop that kind of emotional break?
There’d been nothing I could do because I didn’t have that bond with him. There were a lot of shoulders better suited to holding him up than mine.
So, I did the one thing within my power—I gave the media something to do besides circle him like camera-wielding vultures.
“How has this team been in the wake of losing their captain?” a reporter asked me as casually as if she were asking if we liked our new jerseys.
Calling on every second of media-training I’d ever had, I kept my expression neutral and met her gaze.
“It’s been hard for them. Teammates—we get really close, you know?
We’re family. Just having someone get traded away or sign somewhere else in free agency can be hard.
It’s been tough for those of us who didn’t know Early.
What those guys are going through?” I gestured at the closed door behind me. “I can’t even imagine.”
Laramie picked up the thread. “It’s always hard when you lose someone, especially a member of your core. When they retire or if they leave—it’s an adjustment. You feel kinda…” He furrowed his brow.
“Untethered?” I offered.
“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “So then on top of that, there’s… Well, there’s why Pittsburgh’s captain is gone. Any team’s going to have a hard time picking up and moving forward after that.”
“What are your thoughts on your new captain?” came the follow-up question. “Do you think Avery Caldwell is the leader this team needs through this difficult time?”
Laramie and I exchanged glances. I hoped the reporters and anyone watching the videos interpreted it as “you want to answer first or should I?” instead of “are these clowns for real?”
Laramie said, “He’s been great. I haven’t played with him long enough to be able to say one way or the other, but I watched him with the kids at training camp, and I’ve watched him play for years.
” He half-shrugged. “He was an alternate captain already—doesn’t seem like much of a leap for him to wear the C. ”
Though I’d been surprised we’d made him captain when he was obviously grieving harder than any of our teammates, and I still worried we were putting too much pressure on him, I nodded.
“Yeah, exactly. I don’t know the whole roster that well yet, either, so I can’t say this or that player would be better suited for the captaincy than Calds.
We’ll see how the season goes, you know?
But I’ve got total faith in him. I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t. ”
I wondered if any of them caught the unspoken dare—why do you think he shouldn’t be our captain?
Because if they answered that, then I could remind them who’d scored two of our goals tonight, including the game winner, and pulled us through even after he’d obviously struggled to get through the ceremony.
Yeah, he’d broken in the locker room, but only after all of that.
And hopefully they didn’t know about him falling apart on the other side of the door behind me and Laramie.
He’s the strongest motherfucker on this team, you cretins. Who else is worthy of wearing our C?
They didn’t take the bait, which was probably a good thing.
“This question is for both of you,” another reporter said. “You both signed with Pittsburgh during this past off season. I want to know, if you hadn’t already signed your contract when this tragedy occurred, would you still have wanted to come to Pittsburgh, knowing what happened?”
I probably let my media face slip a little, and I didn’t care.
Sometimes it blew my mind the shit these people would ask us.
Some were just devoid of social graces, while others were clearly trying to get a reaction.
I couldn’t quite tell with this guy, but in the interest of not blowing up on-camera, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Absolutely,” I said without hesitation.
“Pittsburgh was going to be my top choice if I became a free agent, and that hasn’t changed in the slightest. And seeing how hard these guys are working, how much they’re playing with all that heart even when they’re going through hell?
You have to admire that, you know? They’re bound and determined to honor Erlandsson by sticking together and playing hard as a team, and I just hope I’m proving to them and the fans that I’m as committed as they are. ”
“Exactly.” Laramie gave a sharp nod. “I mean, yeah, part of the reason I wanted to come here was I wanted to play on the same team as Leif Erlandsson. I’d always heard he was a great teammate and an awesome captain, and there’s a reason he was a three-time All-Star, you know?
But I also wanted to play here. With this whole team.
” He made a disgusted sound. “That hasn’t changed just because the guys are going through something awful. Why would it?”
I peered at the reporter. Yeah. Why would it?
No response came, and someone else chimed in with a question about the game itself.
Those could get annoying in their own right—there were only so many ways to say “yep, we should’ve kept the puck away from the other guys”—but tonight I was happy to answer them.
I would talk all night long about how much we needed to improve our forecheck, how some critical turnovers could’ve been avoided, and how we absolutely should’ve taken advantage of their netminder’s lack of rebound control.
Anything to keep them busy and pacified while our teammates leaned on each other in private.
Eventually, Glen stepped in between us and the reporters, and he politely said, “That’s enough questions.”
“Are the players ready for us in the locker room?” someone asked.
Glen shook his head. “I’m afraid we’re not going to allow the press into the room this evening.”
Laramie and I exchanged wide-eyed glances. Shit—had things gotten worse since we’d stepped out?
There was a general mutter of irritation, and another reporter said, “This was a big night for the team after their loss. We’d like to get some comments from the players about it.”
“I understand that,” Glen said, completely unflapped.
“But it has been a big night for the team. They’re grieving someone very close to them, and I’m going to ask for them to have some privacy to process that this evening.
” He gestured at Laramie and me. “That’s why these two gentlemen made themselves available for questions. ”
No one seemed pleased about that, but they didn’t push. Probably because a few members of arena security had inched closer, watching the whole exchange with fuck around and find out written all over their faces.
As the reporters dispersed, Glen turned to us and exhaled, letting his own facade crack a little. “Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate you having everyone’s backs.”
“Absolutely,” Laramie said. “I’m happy to get in the way if they want to mess with my teammates.”
“Same.” I grimaced. “I can’t believe they’re so… blunt about asking about Erlandsson. I know reporters can be a little mercenary sometimes, but aren’t there some lines?”
Glen’s lips formed a thin, bleached line, and he pushed out a breath through his nose.
“Yeah. I wasn’t impressed about that. I’m going to have a talk with club management and see if I can’t put out a memo barring anyone from bringing him up to players.
” He huffed sharply and rolled his eyes.
“I’ve been working with the media for thirty-five years, and even I’m still surprised sometimes at how relentless they can be when they smell a story. ”
I made a face. Laramie just said, “Eww.”
Eww was right.
We stepped back into the locker room. It was mostly quiet, now—just the sounds of people moving around and of water running in the next room.
The equipment managers were wheeling out carts full of jerseys (which Laramie and I added ours to), and people were putting on sweats and T-shirts so they could go eat.
No one spoke. No one looked at anyone else. The vibe in the room was as somber as if we’d just lost game seven of the Cup final. Guys were going through the motions of their postgame routines, but all the air from our win had been sucked right out of the room.
I didn’t say a word as I went to my locker stall and started taking off my own gear. I didn’t blame them—I’d have been a mess, too—I just felt helpless. There was nothing I could do to make this better for anyone, and I hated that.
On the ice, Erlandsson’s jersey retirement had seemed to pull together all the players who’d known him.
Afterward, though, when Avery broke down, it seemed to give a lot of people the permission they needed to grieve out loud too.
Now everyone was just quiet and wrung out, going through the motions like all they wanted to do was collapse on the floor and sleep.
It was a tough night, that was for sure.
I had no doubt it was hell for them, but for those of us at the edges—those of us who hadn’t known Erlandsson and were still finding our place on the team—it meant more distance between us and our teammates.
As Baddy and Eminem had comforted Avery, some of the other guys had choked up, and they’d leaned hard on each other.
Us new guys, we did the best we could, offering support, but…
what the hell were we even supposed to say?
What were we supposed to do? Grieving was a complicated mess to begin with, and so was comforting someone who was grieving.
The stall next to mine was Eminem’s, and he came back from the showers as I was getting down to my base layer. His eyes were a little red, too.
“Hey, man.” He clapped my shoulder. “Thanks for stepping up.” He nodded sharply toward the door to the hallway. “Handling the reporters.” Looking past me, he added, “You too, Laramie.”
“Don’t mention it.” I glanced around the room. “How is, um…?”
“Calds?” Eminem pressed his lips together. “It’s a rough night for him. We all knew it would be.” He exhaled hard. “He didn’t need the press in his face. None of us did.”
“Figured as much. But he’s—I mean, I don’t imagine he’s good. But… better than earlier?”
“Maybe?” My teammate shrugged and sighed. “I don’t know how he got through the ceremony and the game in the first place, to tell you the truth. He’s a lot tougher than I am, that’s for sure.”
“No kidding.” Baddy appeared beside us. “Last thing he needs right now is the reporters all up in his business.”
I swallowed, nodding silently. I was relieved to know I’d been able to help somehow. It didn’t seem like enough, but it was something.
I glanced back and forth between Baddy and Eminem. “Listen, I didn’t know him, okay? Erlandsson? But I know it’s been tough on all of you. Anything I can do”—I gestured at Laramie—“anything we can do to take some of that off you guys, just say so.”
Eminem smiled and clapped my shoulder. “You’re good people, Halls. Now get your ass in the shower because you don’t smell like good people.”
That, thank God, broke through the tension, and I laughed. “Oh, come on!” I stepped toward him, arms outstretched. “Just gimme a hug!”
“Ack! No!” He ducked out of the way. “I will mace you with Febreeze! I swear to God!”
“Just one hug!”
“Screw you, Halls!”
There was some quiet laughter through the rest of the room. As I left for the showers, it had mostly died down, but at least the somber atmosphere had cracked.
It wasn’t much.
But I was happy to help lift the mood a little bit.