Chapter 4 #2
Bea’s eyes dance under the fluorescent lights as she covers her mouth to stifle the sound.
I wish she wouldn’t. Her laughter is infectious.
As I let my gaze linger, she drops her hand into the pocket of her black slacks and offers me a soft smile, jerking her head slightly toward the wall where Robbie has moved the light again.
I don’t need to turn back to perfectly capture it under my hand.
Bea’s eyebrow arches, her head cocking to the side as she watches me, and I can’t fight the twitch at the corner of my lips. They curl in a half smile at her.
“Nicky!” Robbie’s calling of my name is a gentle redirection, and I lock in on my exercise and ignore the pretty public relations officer.
In the hallway outside the locker room, Bea leans against the wall, thumbs flying across the screen of her phone as she types.
I take a moment, even if I feel a little like a creep, to watch.
A pinch of concentration forms between her eyebrows as she types.
It’s cute. Bea has been by my side for every meeting and every filming session.
She’s professional, personable, and polite as she helps me navigate this experience and maintain the boundaries I’ve set.
She’s slipping into my life in a way that’s comfortable, but not entirely unexpected, given the frequency of the time we’ve spent together.
It makes me glad that I have her on my side, that I can count on her to do her job.
And maybe even consider her a friend. Aside from the boys on the team and Violet, I don’t have many of those.
“How much would you hate me if I showed Nat that little laser pointer game?” Bea teases as she tucks her phone away. Her head cocks to the left, chocolate curls tumbling over her shoulder.
“Don’t know,” I say after considering, hitching the strap of my backpack higher. “Do you think it would help or hurt my case that now is a terrible time to get a cat?”
She smiles, and my heart gives a pathetic flip-flop.
It’s been getting easier to do this with her over the last few days: the jokes, the smiles.
Well, maybe not the smiles, but I do more than nod along now.
I find my voice to say a few words. But all of that comes with a current of desire that’s getting harder to ignore.
“Meow,” Bea replies, curling her fingers like claws before she glances to the end of the hallway where the camera crew is gathered.
They’re not allowed inside the locker room unless given express permission by Coach—and that likely won’t happen.
“Andy wants to do an interview about today’s training and what the rest of the week looks like, okay? ”
At the center of the cluster is Andy Quinn, the documentary’s segment producer assigned to follow me around.
They’re scrolling through their phone and giving directions before the rest of the crew heads farther down the hall to the tunnels.
Andy turns and begins walking toward me.
Their hair is shocking blue and close cut to their head, muting all the other features of their face except hazel eyes rimmed in kohl and two gold hoops in their left nostril.
“We’re going to set up in the walk-in tunnel, okay?
” Andy asks Bea, who gives a nod. They turn to me next, looking up from about my shoulders, a smile on their face.
As far as people who are here to catch every moment of my daily life go, Andy’s great to work with.
“Just a short discussion about your training habits and what you do to stay in shape during the off-season.”
The three of us start down the hall to the interview area together, Andy walking me through some other discussion topics.
“I was hoping we could talk about the differences in the intensity of training you’ve had during your career.
How does this compare to things in the AHL, high school, even when you were a kid? ”
“Sure.”
There’s a chair and lighting set up in the arrivals tunnel, the wall with The Midnight logo serving as the backdrop.
More members of the crew who only come for interviews are waiting: a makeup artist, someone behind a set of video monitors who scuttles over to Andy as we round the corner, and a few others checking cables on the ground.
In a way I’m used to from games, the action happens around me, and I watch, waiting for the moment I’m needed to act.
“Let me take this?” Bea appears next to me, her small hand ghosting along my bicep to the strap of my backpack.
There’s a tingling left in the wake of her fingers, and I wish I could find a way to have her touch me again.
She lifts the bag off my shoulder, and I drop slightly to let her take the weight, recognized by a smile at the corner of her mouth.
She’s still more than six inches shorter than me, even in her tall heels today, and I like that I can catch the barest hint of her scent as she passes in front of me.
It’s bright and citrusy, like a freshly peeled orange in the grove.
The delicate floral notes underneath linger, causing me to lean subconsciously after her.
The makeup artist steps to my other side, keeping me from toppling over.
Sponge in hand, I turn my jaw toward her, but keep my eyes on Bea as she moves behind the monitors.
A few minutes later, I’m mic’d up again and seated across from Andy in front of the cameras.
Nerves flutter uncertainly in my stomach, the way they always do when I’m required to do press.
But they don’t disappear when the set begins to quiet.
This isn’t a ten-second soundbite for SportsCenter when I have to recap the game.
We’re going to be talking about me, and suddenly the enormity of what I’ve agreed to slams into me at once, making the flutter feel like a hailstorm.
The lights are too bright. The chair too small.
The microphone feels like an anchor on my chest.
“Nicky, look at me.”
Immediately, I snap my attention to her. Just over Andy’s shoulder, behind the monitor, Bea holds my gaze. I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Her lips part as she mimics me, modeling the way to take a steady breath in and out.
Quietly. Calmly. I feel my chest rise and fall with more regularity, and my muscles relax. Bea walks around the monitors, ignoring the protests of the crew. She never breaks eye contact, even when she puts a hand on Andy’s arm, leaning over to whisper a few words on her way over to me.
When I’m seated on the edge of this stool, Bea is at eye level when she stops in front of me.
“Talk to me,” she tells me, her hands bracketing my shoulders. She gives me a tender squeeze and a soft smile. “I know Andy will ask the questions, but talk to me, okay? I’ll be just behind them, and it will be like we’re the only two people here.”
“Yeah, I can do that.” I nod, my face flushing. “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”
The embarrassment settles in. I’m a professional goalie in the National Hockey League.
I stand in a six-by-four-foot goal for two hundred days of the year, with rubber pucks turning into missiles as they are hit at me.
That never makes me flinch. I’ve never let the nerves in.
But there hasn’t been a way to prepare for this.
And as if she knew, Bea took it all away.
“You don’t need to apologize.” She gives my shoulders one more squeeze before dropping her hold.
She doesn’t step back, and I’m glad she’s still so close.
The physical proximity and the smile she gives me feel like walking into the sun on a winter’s day.
The warmth that spreads through me chases away the shadows of uncertainty and fear that licked at my skin.
“I’d love to tell you these will get easier, but I’m not you.
” Bea’s hand comes up once more, like she’s going to brush the hair that’s fallen across my forehead.
I want her to, long for it even at that second.
But she stops herself, and I remember I can’t afford the distraction.
Her fingers curl into her fist for a moment before she stuffs her hand into her pocket and clears her throat.
“You can do this, Nicky. It’s just a conversation, and I’ll be here the whole time. ”
“Thanks,” I manage before she walks back to her post behind the monitors, taking the light she carries with her.
Andy’s perched on the edge of their stool, lifting their eyebrows in question.
I take a deep breath and look once more for Bea’s smile.
When she gives it, I focus my attention on Andy. “I’m ready.”