CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
J ason
I pretend I’m not nervous about the interview.
Advertisements for it have been filling my feed.
The phone pings, and Dad’s face flashes on the screen. I pick it up. “Hi Dad.”
“I hear someone has an interview with Sports Sphere tonight?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“I’m proud of you, son.”
I blink. “You are?”
I can’t remember when he last told me that.
“Getting your name out there. I want everyone to know who you are after tonight. And, who knows, maybe there will be a surprise.”
“Dad?”
Well, everyone will know who I am after tonight. He won’t be happy about it though.
I rake my hand through my hair, and for the first time I wonder if I’ve been too hasty. Maybe I shouldn’t do this interview after all.
But I knew I would have these fears. That’s one reason I insisted on having a live interview. I don’t want my agent or Tanaka or anyone to ask me to edit parts of me away.
“I don’t think you’ll like everything in the interview, Dad.”
“People don’t have to like you, son. They have to know who you are.”
I find myself smiling. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s my boy.” The phone clicks off, and I stare at it, then tuck it into my pocket.
This night might change everything.
I walk to Sports Sphere and arrive too early. Clearly, I have excess energy that even three hours of training planned by NHL’s top staff can’t get rid of.
I’ve never been inside the building before. The guard directs me to the elevator that takes me up to the eleventh floor.
I hope this is a good idea. I arrived too late from Canada last night to see Cal in person.
But I’m tired of pretending. Whatever happens to me now, at least I will know I was honest, even if it’s the thing I’ve always resisted in my life. When people despised me, I took comfort in the fact they didn’t know me, that I was showing them a mask, that they weren’t rejecting me.
But at what point is a mask really yourself? When does it merge with you? When do you become all the things you pretend to be? If you’re affecting others negatively, maybe there’s no difference at all.
A woman with fluffy blonde hair that I rarely see on native Bostonians struts in. “Mr. Larvik.”
“Yes.” I pat my tie.
Coach will hate this. Mr. Tanaka will have a coronary.
A single phrase taken out of context by the media can torpedo a career.
After all, didn’t I manage to ruin Dmitri’s career the one time I was invited to go to the press briefing room? The one time I’d happened to score? When I’d basically ruined my own career at the same time?
And yet... There’s no way I’m going to leave.
I sweep my gaze around. “Where’s Cal?”
“Mr. Prescott is in the interview room,” the woman says.
“Right.” I follow her, and every bruise I’ve ever received seems to ache through my body now.
And yet still I don’t run away.
Soon, I’ll see Cal.
The producer is talking, but her words sludge through my mind. I dart my gaze around.
“Something wrong?”
“Cal’s giving the interview, right?”
Her brows furrow slightly, then I remember she’s already assured me he’ll be the interviewer.
“That’s right,” she says with a too wide smile, the kind she’s selected on purpose, because her natural face would probably say who-the-fuck-is-this-guy-who-can’t-remember anything?
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she says hastily, but she looks worried, like I might have a meltdown on live tv. Or just be super dense, which face it, would be me behaving normally.
“Remember to sit facing forward,” she says, “though you can glance at your interviewer.”
“Yes.”
The lights are way too bright. There are too many cameras and too many people sitting behind them, directing them like cannons.
I hope I don’t explode under their force.
Sports Sphere’s massive logo dominates the background.
The producer approaches me, clipboard in hand. “Mr. Larvik, there are some people here to see you before we start. They’re waiting for you.”
“Producers?”
“Your father and grandfather flew in from Minnesota. They wanted to surprise you. And Mr. Tanaka is here as well—he said he wanted to offer his support.”
The blood drains from my face. Dad. Gramps. Tanaka. All three of them here, right now, expecting me to be the Jason they think they know.
“I... where are they?”
“Just down the hall. I’ll take you. You have about ten minutes before we need you back.”
My legs feel unsteady as I follow her to a smaller room. The door opens, and there they are.
“Son!” Dad pulls me into a hug. “We couldn’t miss this. Your first big television interview.”
“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” I manage.
“We wanted it to be a surprise,” Gramps says, his weathered hands gripping my shoulders. “We’re proud of you, boy. You’re finally getting the recognition you deserve.”
Tanaka steps forward, extending his hand. “Jason. I thought I should be here to support one of my players. This is a big moment for the team.”
The room feels too small, the air too thin. All three of them are looking at me with such pride, such expectation. They think they’re here to watch me talk about survival and hockey and getting back to normal.
They have no idea what I’m planning to say.
“Are you nervous?” Dad asks, straightening my tie. “Don’t be. Be yourself. Tell them how you battled the elements on that island. Show them what a real hockey player looks like.”
“The Blizzards are lucky to have you,” Tanaka adds.
My throat feels like it’s closing. “I should get back...”
“We’ll be watching from here,” Gramps says. “We can’t wait to see our boy on national television.”
I stumble, my limbs awkward and unsteady. They’re here. They’re all here.
They’re expecting Jason Larvik, the straight hockey player. The one who keeps his head down and his mouth shut about anything controversial.
But that’s not who I am anymore.
Finally, I return to the interview room, and Cal walks in.
He’s not the Cal I remember from the island or who visits me in my apartment. He’s wearing a blazer and a shirt buttoned all the way up. He even wears a bowtie.
His eyes lock on mine, and my heart glows.
This is why I’m here.
He gives me a perfunctory nod and a shy smile that makes me want to topple into his arms.
He walks toward me, clothed in his news reporter style.
“You didn’t have to do this.” He angles his body away from the cameras, so his words are just for me.
“I wanted to.”
The floor manager starts counting us down from ten.
Cal takes his seat opposite me.
The producer narrows her gaze, and I remember I’m supposed to look at his camera.
Not, well, his socks or something.
Even though everything about Cal is fascinating. Even though everyone is an idiot if they haven’t noticed. Even though Cal should have been locked down long ago, an engagement ring slid over his finger and moved into his dream house.
I’m so fucking lucky I met him.
And I try to focus on that, my gratitude, as the red light flicks on. We’re on air. Live.
Cal looks straight into the lens.
“Good evening. I’m Callum Prescott with Sports Sphere. Tonight, I’m joined by Boston Blizzard winger Jason Larvik who recently survived five days stranded in the Pacific. “He’s agreed to speak with me about his experience.”
My mind shifts to the three men watching from the next room, and my palms sweat.