Chapter 7
My nerves are absolutely frayed, and I can feel the pressure mounting with each interview as players exit the locker room. Each conversation is like pulling teeth—short, clipped responses, nothing particularly insightful. My questions are on point, but their lackluster answers give me very little to work with. My hands tremble slightly as I clutch my microphone, the plastic slipping out of my hand with the pressure. Sweat beads form on my forehead, threatening to trickle down and ruin my perfectly done face. My heart races, pounding against my chest like a wild animal trying to break free from its cage, but instead, I push through.
With each lackluster response from the players, my frustration compounds, fueling the irritation developing inside me. The annoyance spreads through my chest, putting my lungs in a vice grip, making it harder to breathe. Tonight is not going my way. Every second my throat feels tighter, more constricted as if my words are stuck, unable to escape. These interviews aren’t great, but they’re something, and I need to make the best of it. My attempts grow more desperate as I mentally run through ways to salvage this mess before it gets worse.
I force a smile, but it’s strained and unnatural. It takes every ounce of self-control to maintain what little bit of composure I have left and not let the despair consume me. Embarrassment creeps into my thoughts, clouding my mind as I desperately search for ways to turn it around. Maybe I should change my approach? No, my questions are not the problem. It’s the people answering them. I mentally berate myself for not being able to salvage the situation sooner. Time feels like it’s slipping away, and I can’t afford to let this mess spiral out of control.
Taking a deep breath, I steady myself. My nerves may still be frayed, and the pressure may actually kill me, but I won’t let it ruin my broadcast. I push forward, determined to salvage this mess and make the most of what I have. Figuring it’s safe now, I head into the locker room, hoping to catch a few more players for interviews. But no, it’s just as much of a disaster as before. The locker room is a chaotic scene of scattered equipment and thrown jerseys. The air is thick with the stench of sweat and disappointment. An eerie silence hits me as I step inside. My pounding heart doesn’t help the situation as I navigate through the empty space, my steps echoing until I make eye contact with the absolute very last person I want to.
The sight of Elliot St. Germain, wearing only a towel, immediately catches my attention as I enter. There is literally nothing else I can look at except for his glistening abs. His presence is striking. He was tall this morning when I saw him, but somehow, he seems to tower over me. Elliot’s lean, muscular body is on full display for me to take in. Even his muscles have muscles. His black curly hair is tight on the sides but longer on the crown of his head. The water from his shower weighed the curls down onto his forehead. I watch a water droplet slide down his sharp, angular features, falling onto a patch of hair on his chest. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t look away as the droplet rolls over the valley of his muscles.
His harsh voice snaps me out of my trance. “Barnacle, you have got to stop doing this.”
I gape at him, my mouth wide open. Words in my brain no longer form sentences.
“What... what do you mean?” His dark brown eyes are so dark. There is a sharp, alert, and maybe angry quality to them.
Elliot takes a fully tattooed arm and waves it around him. “Hello! There is no one here, and I’m naked.” Again, pointing out the very, very low towel around his hips. Great. I am once again staring at him. Why do I keep wondering what’s under that towel? I can’t help it. It just happens.
“I know, but…” I stammer, losing my train of thought. Beneath his absurdly thick mustache, Elliot gives me an extremely tempting smile, really highlighting his personality. Even with a charismatic smile, it still doesn’t reach his eyes, though. I see the shift on his face, the smile gone, as he hisses, “I’m serious, Barnacle. Get a grip on yourself.”
The awkwardness of the situation floods back with his words…and why the hell does he keep calling me that? Everything about him annoys me. As if this isn't already bad enough, my stress levels are now sky-high. My heart pounds in my chest as I quickly turn around. I won’t have to stop myself from looking at him if he is behind me. My mind races to find the best way to salvage what little professionalism I have left. I just need one interview from him. It doesn’t even have to be a good interview. I’ll settle for decent at this point, as long as it’s a one-on-one sound bite. I have to turn this around, even if the odds appear to be stacked against me. This is not how I imagined my big solo broadcast would go.
“Get dressed,” I snap at him, my back still turned. “I’ve finished all my other one-on-one interviews. You’re the last one. I won’t leave until it’s done, so make it fast. I have a postgame interview in 35 minutes,” I spew out, not daring to turn around.
What feels like hours pass before Elliot finally speaks. “Let’s get this over with.”
I turn slowly. I don’t know what I’m afraid of at this point. It can’t get any worse, but I still don’t trust it. Elliot’s choice of attire doesn’t make it any easier. Oh my god, I hate it here. As if being naked under a towel isn’t torment enough, I now get to interview him in gray sweatpants, a Red Wolves t-shirt, and a backward hat. He is the worst. But I know I have a job to do, so I square my shoulders and focus on the task at hand.
Summoning my cameraman, we begin the interview. I refuse to look any further down than that godforsaken mustache. Despite my disdain for him, it’s hard to stop looking at him. I must maintain a professional demeanor. Ask the necessary questions and listen to his responses to adjust accordingly. This is just part of the job.
Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I dive into the one-on-one interview with Elliot. My hands are slightly shaky as I adjust my notes and glance at the questions I’ve meticulously prepared. Elliot stands across from me, his expression full of annoyance. Yeah, well, I don’t want to be here anymore than you, sir. Despite the awkward tension, I remind myself that this is just another challenge to overcome, and I refuse to let his irritation throw me off my game. I plaster on my most professional smile and signal for the camera to start rolling. “Alright, Elliot, thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”
He nods curtly, barely making eye contact. “Yeah, no problem.”
I glance at my first question, determined to start strong. “How do you feel about your performance today?”
His tone is flat and uninterested, and he replies, “Fine.” I push on, not letting his lackluster response faze me.
“The team managed to pull ahead and secure a win, but it was a close call. What do you think was the key to turning the game around in the final moments?”
He shrugs, looking away. “Defense stepped up.”
I roll my eyes at his frustratingly brief response. How the hell are we going to edit this into something worthwhile? “What adjustments will you be making in preparation for the next game?”
He mutters, “Same as always,” clearly not in the mood for this, “maybe next game, someone won’t interrupt my pregame routine.”
I grimace. He said it softly, but the camera had to have picked it up.
I force a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “Rumors are floating around that you are superstitious. Your routines are things of legend. Care to share any of those with our viewers?”
Elliot finally looks at me, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “No.”
Seriously. “Why not? What are you scared of?” I challenge, leaning forward slightly.
“Not gonna happen,” he says, his tone shifting slightly. “Keeping the hockey gods happy is way more important than answering your questions.”
As the interview progresses, I feel this sense of unease. There’s something off about Elliot, something that makes me question his sincerity. My instincts tell me not to trust him, and I can’t shake that feeling. But I push those thoughts aside and continue the interview, determined to get through it. I give him a sharp look.
Needing to course correct, I change the subject. “And what do you think was the most challenging part of today’s game?”
He sighs, his earlier annoyance creeping back in. “Just staying focused, you know?”
I agree with him. “Absolutely. Well, thank you for your time, Elliot. Best of luck in the next game.”
I signal the cameraman to cut, my frustration barely contained. As soon as the red light flicks off, I gather my notes with shaking hands, my jaw clenched tight. Elliot’s dismissive answers and aloof attitude have me seeing red. I turn on my heel, storming out of the locker room with determined strides. The nerve of him! There’s no time to dwell on it now, though. I need to cover the postgame interview. My mind races as I make my way to the press area, trying to shake off the irritation and regain my composure.
As I settle into my spot, I feel the irritation coursing through my veins. The frustration and anger still lingers, causing my hands to tremble uncontrollably as I try to steady them. My jaw remains clenched, the muscles taut and rigid, a physical manifestation of my simmering rage. Taking a deep breath, I attempt to release the tension that has settled into my body. I can feel the tightness in my shoulders aching from the strain of holding back. My very movements are fueled by the fire burning within me.
As I wait for the postgame interview to begin, my mind races as I replay my interactions with the players. I push aside the frustration, reminding myself that I will be successful despite them. But the echoes of my interactions with Elliot continue to reverberate in my mind, intensifying my frustration. Showing my worth in this job is important. The constant pressure to perform under challenging circumstances weighs heavily on me. I refuse to let Elliot’s behavior define me or my work.
My anticipation and readiness for this to be over builds as the postgame interview finally commences. I focus on the frustration and channel my energy into asking insightful questions. This job may test me. It may push me to my limits. Let’s be honest, this job is going to be the death of me.