4. Josh
JOSH
Walking through the doors with Coach Abrams, Amelia, Hartman, and Schultz somehow made the experience more surreal. Having them around should have been a comfort, but it was unsettling being in a new setting, on a new team, and surrounded by familiar faces that were not part of my organization.
I shook hands and slapped backs as we wove our way to an empty table before the first official team event, breakfast.
I waved and smiled at guys from the Olympics, looking forward to catching up and spotted a few glares being thrown around.
Not everyone was friends, despite the weeks spent together. Everyone set aside personal feuds for the sake of our nation, but they re-emerged the second the regular NHL season picked up after the break.
Playoffs had been brutal this year, and I couldn’t help but smirk at the bruises and black eyes of the players from the teams that faced off for the Stanley Cup just a few days ago.
Tensions were still high, and while we were all here for a united purpose, egos weren’t suppressed like they were for the global stage.
Once the cameras were on, things would mellow out, but in the ballroom, you could end up accidentally catching a right hook if you weren’t careful.
“This is fun,” Amelia plastered on a fake smile as she took in the obvious tension.
“It hasn’t even started yet,” Hartman leaned back in his chair, carefree as one of the few neutral men in the room. He was annoyingly diplomatic as our Utah captain, and alternate captain for this team. He didn’t hold grudges or keep a tally of illegal hits like others.
Schultz sneered at the table next to us before glaring down at his plate after a quick shoulder squeeze from Abrams.
“Dante,” Schultz growled. “Does he have to be so close? Can’t they find a rock for him to crawl under? No one should have to look at him.”
I didn’t disagree. He was one of the filthiest players in the league, yet somehow got an invitation to not only this tournament but the Olympics. Even when we were all on the same team, you couldn’t help but hate him.
Dante was selfish. Dirty. Played like he was the most important person on the ice with complete disregard for his teammates.
He was also a fan favorite.
Unfortunately, people liked fights. They liked watching us get slammed into the glass or punched in the face.
The league knew it. The networks knew it.
Yes, fighting was an inevitable fact of hockey.
But there were rules, mostly unwritten, about how things should be handled. Moral guidelines.
Dante Leinecker followed none of them.
“Ignore him,” I told Schultz. He had to crane his neck to see him, so it would be easy. I, on the other hand, had the unfortunate vantage of his ugly mug blocking my view of the stage.
Season before last, he came at me, without the puck, and swept one leg out before slamming me into the net.
He landed on me, pinning one knee at an unnatural angle, and I was only able to get one solid punch in before my guys pulled him off me and got in a few more shots before the referees intervened.
The unprompted attack cost me three weeks. Three weeks of painful rehabilitation where I imagined his ugly face as I pushed through.
I hated him.
And once again, we were on the same team.
“What’s the fee for injuring a teammate?” I whispered to Hartman.
He smirked. “No more than ten grand for the first offense.”
“Worth it,” I noted.
We managed to make it through the meal without any fights and were moved along, not unlike cattle, to another room for just the Stars where our coaches were waiting for us in front of several long tables.
“Are we back in school?” Schultz whispered.
Hartman shushed him and moved us forward so we could be in the front row as the coaches spent the next few hours discussing our lines and rotations, strategies, and what to expect over the next two weeks.
It was mind-numbing, but necessary. I just wished I’d mastered the ability of sleeping with my eyes open, since so much of it wasn’t exactly relevant to me.
“Come on,” Schultz slapped my shoulder, and I realized everyone was standing.
“It’s over?” I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Yes, there will be a quiz later. You better have paid attention,” he smirked.
“Are we done?” I whispered as I followed the guys down another hall of the massive hotel.
“Nope,” Hartman said from behind me. “Pictures are next.”
Schultz and I groaned as we entered the room until I noticed our gear was laid out and cameras hovered to catch our reactions.
“Oh, nice.” I found my sections and held up the custom helmet the league made for the tournament. I hadn’t been able to choose the design with the tight turnaround but the holographic stars and designs that were a nod to the local monuments were incredible.
“Do I get to keep this?” I asked Coach Abrams as he strolled by with the other coaches.
He shrugged. “If you win.”
I laughed. “Nah, then it will end up in a museum somewhere.”
“All of this probably will,” Hartman agreed.
“Remember to snag what you can after the last game,” Schultz winked, and Hartman scowled.
“That’s stealing.”
“Not when it has our names on it,” Schultz held up his jersey and grinned. “See. Mine.”
“Everyone change into your jerseys so we can get promo pictures.” Coach Badaszek, our head coach, called out.
“Full gear?” someone asked from the back.
“Just jerseys, no helmets,” he replied before walking out.
I slipped mine over my head, then moved to the end of the line. They were putting us in front of a blue background.
“Give us several emotions,” I heard the photographer call to Tyson Lane, our team captain. “Intimidating, excited, happy, angry.”
Like the professional he was, Tyson got the shots quickly, giving us ideas of how to get our pictures done, then moved the line along.
“Should I do surprised?” Schultz put his hands on his cheeks and opened his mouth. “Or scared?” His brows pulled together, and his eyes widened. “Laughing?” He threw back his head and silently opened his mouth.
“Not that one,” I grimaced. “It’s creepy.”
“Next,” the photographer’s assistant called.
“You go,” Schultz shoved Hartman forward. “Show us how it’s done.”
Like Tyson, he quickly went through the motions and was done within seconds.
“See, don’t be weird, and it’s painless.”
Schultz shrugged. “Sounds boring.”
He stepped in front of the camera and tried making silly faces for about five seconds before Hartman snapped at him.
“Fun sucker,” he muttered, then smiled, scowled, and smirked until the photographer was satisfied.
Not wanting to draw out the suffering, I quickly did the same and rejoined the guys as we were once again shuffled along to the next room filled with reporters.
I moved from one interview to the next, keeping my easy smile in place except when I recognized the journalist and could give them a genuine grin.
Familiar faces in these situations were a lifesaver.
They made the completely unnatural feel less unsettling and reminded me that the faces staring back at me were real people too.
It was going smoothly until I noticed her.
The groan I fought back slipped out just enough that Hartman caught it.
“What?” He glanced around but couldn’t possibly know why I was suddenly put off.
Schultz was already in front of her. I couldn’t slip away now without gaining everyone’s attention.
Her bright smile reached her eyes when he said something charming or funny. I couldn't hear. My ears were ringing.
“Her?” Hartman followed my line of sight before turning slightly to block her from me. “Do you know her?”
I nodded, feeling a muscle above my lip twitch.
“And there’s a problem?” he guessed.
“What about you, Wyatt?” Her voice was closer. She’d stepped toward us. Her eyes were on him. Had she not seen me? Was I invisible to her or was her focus that locked in on whoever was directly in front of her?
“Oh, he knows better than to challenge me,” Schultz laughed.
Hartman scoffed, though I was certain he had no idea what they were talking about. “The only thing I wouldn’t win against you is an eating contest.”
Schultz patted his flat stomach. “I can put it down.”
Finally, she glanced toward me, and her smile grew. “Perfect, you even have a goalie.”
She stepped back and revealed a mini half-rink carpet with a net and four mini sticks.
“It’s going down!” Schultz picked up the sticks and handed one to me and Hartman.
I moved into place, glancing at her as I passed. Did she not remember me?
“Now, the rules,” she started, but Hartman held up a hand.
“We know the rules,” he challenged Schultz with a raised brow. “Don’t we?”
I shook my head and placed my stick in front of the tiny goal.
“If there’s anything you need to know about the Utah guys, it’s that we take mini sticks very seriously,” Hartman added before dropping the puck between them.
She laughed, watching them body-check each other and scrambled out of the way as they grew more intense, fighting to take control and shoot.
I locked in, refusing to let either of them score on me.
“Well done. You prove why you’ve got an A on your jersey for the tournament." She ignored Schultz’s eye roll. “What are you most looking forward to about the coming weeks?”
“Another opportunity to show the nation what we’re about,” Hartman said vaguely.
“Yeah, I don’t see the NFL or NBA doing anything for the anniversary,” Schultz added.
“It’s not just Canada’s sport,” Hartman agreed. “Winning gold at the Olympics was a great way to get their attention and hopefully this continues to get people excited about the sport.”
She turned to me. “And do you have anything to add?”
“No.” I had plenty to say on the subject, but I wasn’t giving her a quote.
“I mean, I think we covered it,” Hartman said with a chuckle, while eyeing me.
“Right,” she agreed with a tight smile. “How does it feel playing against some of your Olympic teammates?"
She looked at me first this time.
“Normal. It’s what we do all season,” I deadpanned.
“It’s always a bit weird to see players on the opposite side once you’ve worn the same jersey––” Hartman jumped in. “But it’s exciting to be reunited with some of them to play for the West.”
Schultz nodded. “It’s a fun new dynamic.”
Hartman took a step closer to Schultz, effectively blocking me from the interview, and I gladly took the out and walked away.
I was almost to the elevators, just a few steps from freedom, when I heard my name and they caught up to me.
“What was that?” Hartman demanded.
I shrugged.
“You’re not the best interviewee, but Henson, man, that was terrible.”
“You were fine until she showed up.” Hartman crossed his arms. “You two have history?”
Schultz smirked, “Did you guys have a fling?”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. “No.”
“Well, if it's not a lover scorned thing, then what?” he pressed.
I didn’t want to talk about it. It was clear she didn’t remember me, or she was pretending not to so I would do the same.
Or she wrote so many destructive pieces she forgot about the mangled remains she left in her path.
It was probably that option.
She was a journalist, but not one I respected. She was the kind to sink her talons and teeth into you just so she could tear you apart. Like a…a…vulture! Yeah.
Only, I was pretty sure those only ate already dead things.
Maybe a…lion? Yeah, they had claws, and those were just as deadly.
She was an infuriating lioness with no regard for the words she wrote and the real-life effects they had on others. She put whatever she wanted into her articles, as long as they’d get a click, journalistic integrity all forgotten.
She was a chaser. A ladder climber.
She did what was necessary for herself to get ahead, no matter how many people she had to step on to get just a bit higher.
You could say I hated her, but you’d be wrong.
I hated mosquitoes and food poisoning. What I felt for her was much deeper.
Before I ever met her, I would have thought I was easygoing. A forgive and forget person, who moved on no matter how hard someone hit me.
She changed that.
“Josh?” Schultz waved his hand in front of my face. “You good?”
I pushed his hand away. “Fine.”
“You’re lying and clearly worked up right now,” Hartman eyed me, slipping from friend into captain mode. “We’ll let it slide for now, but once you calm down, we’ll discuss this.”
Schultz’s attempt at looking serious almost made me smile, but I was too annoyed to give in. “Yeah, we’re going to talk about this later, young man.”
The elevator doors behind me opened, and an elderly couple stepped out.
“Sure.” I waited until they passed before sliding in and pressing the button for my floor.
“I’m serious,” Hartman glowered. “We’re talking about this, or I’m bringing it up with Abrams.”
I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. Of course, that was his go-to threat.
“Fine, Dad!” I called as the doors slammed shut.