THREE #2
It’s like I’m being sent to the gallows as I turn around, blinking at the bright lights and multiple phones being pushed toward my face from all angles.
“Tough loss, Haymaker,” one of the LFB Sports reporters says. “How do you feel?”
It doesn’t escape me that they only call me by my nickname now, as does everyone I encounter, really. Now the only time I really hear someone call me Hayden is Emerald... and Rick when he realized I’ll actually respond to that more than Haymaker.
The nickname makes me feel more like a brand than a person.
Rick motions for me to smile. I give a tight grin—the only smile I can manage—and nod somberly. Just like he’s coached me to in his PR training.
“Disappointed, obviously,” I say. Rick nods approvingly, motioning to keep going. “But just that much motivated to deliver next game.”
Click-click-click, goes a camera .
I clear my throat and stretch my neck, trying to ease the tension. Sweat drips down my temple, and my jersey sticks to my back uncomfortably. I brush my hair back from where it’s glued to my forehead. I need to shower and get out of these clothes now before I really explode.
I need to get to my wife.
The desire to speak to her makes every muscle in my body tighten, practically feeling her get further and further away from me.
Glancing back over to Rick, I see that the security guard is back and telling Rick something. When Rick sees me looking, he nods. All good, he mouths.
Relief hits me.
She got to her car. She’s safe. I will see her at home.
Maybe I can stop and get some chocolates on the way, her favorite milkshake from Bruno’s. That’ll sweeten it while I can try to apologize for being an inconsiderate, mean asshole to her.
You prick, my mind snarls at me as I replay her devastated face.
“Some analysts are saying you look… distracted lately. Do you feel distracted?”
The question jolts me out of my thoughts.
“No.”
Eyebrows raise skeptically.
“Really? Nothing at all?”
My teeth grind together.
They always do this, ask the same question twice to try to catch me, or irritate me into spilling the answer they want.
“No.”
“There’s been a lot of discussion about your off-ice life this year. Big contract, new city, adjustments. How much of an impact do those things have on performance?”
“Not too much for me. I’ve always been able to compartmentalize—” I pause. A thought flickers through my mind. Emerald would be proud of that word. “—between my life on and off the ice. They are completely separate.”
More reporters circle, more cameras click. The itch crawls up my back. My jaw clenches even more, and I’m breathing out my nose like a bull.
“Players sometimes struggle when there’s instability at home. Would you say everything is stable for you right now?”
Okay, they’re not even fucking pretending to be subtle anymore.
“Yes.”
“But do you understand why people might draw the conclusion of instability given the timing of the slump?”
I fold my arms across my chest. The question is stated in such a way that it’s meant to be innocent, meant to be an actual concern, but it’s the implication underneath that even I can read.
“Nope.”
“You don’t think major life stressors can impact performance?”
“I think I’m responsible for my performance—not my wife,” I hold his gaze, my heart slamming against my ribcage.
The telltale sign that I’m about to knock someone out.
“So just to be clear, Emerald Sawyer is not a factor in what’s happening with this team?”
The room is still, and their eyes brighten with anticipation for my answer.
With the mention of my wife’s name from this slimeball reporter’s mouth, I fucking lose it .
“I think it’s fucking asinine—” another big word, Em. I wish I wasn’t such a fucking asshole right now so you could be proud, “—to imply that my wife has something to do with my performance on the ice.”
“Then how do you explain the sudden drop in performance?”
I snap.
“By being distracted with these questions when I could be regrouping mentally and preparing for tomorrow’s game.”
I turn and walk from the reporters trying to get my attention again.
“No more questions.”
Rick steps in behind me with that same slick smile, smoothing it all over for the cameras. That’s what I pay him for. That’s what I keep telling myself.
When we moved to Boston, I needed a new agent. I hadn’t been happy with my last one, who was stretched so thin among his other clients that he could barely answer a text back.
Rick Fox had sold himself as a jack of all trades, a true wizard—agent, but also a manager and a publicist. No need to hire multiple people when he could do it all for me.
“My job is to make you a superstar. My philosophy is to focus on one player at a time. Cut out the middlemen bullshit. You need something, you call me, and I’ll deliver. Every fucking time.”
I thought it was smart, and I liked his presentation. Even if Emerald didn’t.
He was familiar with Boston, with the Bullies administration, with every reporter in this city.
So, I hired him.
And he’s kept me very busy in the year we’ve been in Boston .
Maybe a little too busy.
I figured with the holidays, I would get a break to take some time with Emerald. I’ve missed her so much.
I know she’s unhappy here, but it’s an adjustment. It’ll take some time. Doesn’t she see that I’m doing this for us? For her? Have I not made that clear enough?
This city is different than Ann Arbor and Minneapolis, and I know being this far away from her family hurts. I had comforted her, saying this would just be a new adventure, that we would enjoy Boston just as we had enjoyed Minneapolis.
She smiled at that and nodded, but now I can’t stop picturing how that smile actually looked—placating and sad. And now I’ve just added a cataclysmic rupture between us. I only hope that I can bridge this gap and get her back.
I hope.
Forty-five minutes later, my hand is cramping with the amount of autographs I’ve signed, and my cheeks hurt from smiling in pictures.
I’m about to call it when I hear a dreaded purring voice behind me.
“Tough loss, Haymaker.”
Fuck.
Sighing, I turn to my ‘biggest fan’.
Biggest fucking annoyance, more like.
Britney. She’s a puck bunny—a woman who hopes to score a hockey player.
I don’t have a problem with them or my single teammates hooking up with them.
What I do have a major fucking problem with is my teammates trying to hook me up with one of them and cheat on my wife, as if my cheating will somehow justify theirs.
“Win some, lose some.”
“You miss me?” Britney giggles as she saunters over to me. I barely hide my grimace at the grating noise and her general presence.
“Like a hole in my head,” I mutter low enough for her not to hear, turning toward the person holding her phone camera. Jesus Christ, there’s a mini ring light on the camera.
Britney presses her body against my side. I step back to create some space and begrudgingly put my arm behind her, hovering a good six inches above her back.
Britney rolls her eyes at my wide berth and poses for the photos. I don’t even attempt to smile, which makes her huff, annoyed that I won’t play along. After ten photos of Britney posing like it’s a fucking photoshoot, directing the woman holding the camera, she leans in close to me.
“You look tense, Haymaker. I could help relieve some tension if you’d like,” Britney purrs in my ear, making me flinch back. She doesn’t seem to notice or just ignores it, even as I step back so she can stop rubbing up against my side. “If you know what I mean. I’m very helpful—”
“And as I’ve told you, I’m not interested,” I cut her off, firm and final.
She doesn’t know when to fucking give up, and I can’t do a damn thing about it because Rick says not to yell and push away fans.
“What kind of image would that portray? Haymaker hates his fans. PR nightmare. Less people buying game tickets. Buh-bye brand deals. No money for you and Emerald.”
“Oh, come on, Haymaker,” Britney sighs, annoyed. “I’m at every fucking game, even on the road. When are you finally going to give in? I could give you so much more than her —”
“That’s the thing, though , Britney,” I growl, patience completely snapping in half. “You have to pay to be in my presence; my wife just needs to exist, and I bark like a fucking dog for her. ”
Britney swallows, looking a little alarmed. I would never lay my hands on a woman, but she needs to understand this truth and heed this warning.
“Don’t you ever,” I growl the word through gritted teeth, and her blue eyes momentarily flash with fear, “and I mean ever insult my wife again—do you hear me?”
She snaps her mouth shut before she crosses her arms.
Britney then smirks, looking smug. “I don’t back down from a challenge.”
“There’s no challenge, you don’t—” exist to me, is what I want to say, but Rick suavely steps in.
“Alright, Britney, I think you’ve monopolized enough of Haymaker’s time. You need to learn to share.”
Britney gives him a look that I can’t read before her gaze slides back to me.
“If you ever change your mind,” she says, holding out an envelope. I don’t take it, so Rick steps in and takes it from her. Britney wiggles her fingers in goodbye before she disappears into the crowd of fans trying to catch my attention.
My frustration boils over.
“If it’s another nude photo,” I say, pointing to the envelope. From the look on Rick’s face when he opens it, I know I hit the nail on the head. Thank God, Rick usually reads my fan mail before I can. “I want a restraining order against her. That’s gotta be sexual harassment.”
Rick tilts the picture, trying to show me. I avert my eyes.
“Lighten up, Haymaker!” Rick chuckles, slapping me on the back. “Man, if beautiful women wanting to show you their bodies is your biggest problem—”
“Women who are not my wife showing me their bodies—yeah—” I correct.
“—I’ll talk to her, Haymaker—hey,” he cuts off my protest because I know that talking to her won’t do anything. “Go shower, champ. We have to get to Sweat—”
“I’m not going,” I shake my head firmly.
“Haymaker, come on,” Rick beseeches. “It’s $25,000 just to show up.”
“I don’t care.”
“What am I supposed to tell the promoters?”
I’m already walking toward the locker room as I call over my shoulder, “I don’t give a fuck!”