7. Blake
Chapter seven
Blake
L ast night I didn't get a great night's sleep thinking, or more like worrying, about this morning’s press conference.
So, here I am. It's an hour and a half before we start, and the conference hall’s already humming with low chatter and activity, even with the mics off. The podium’s up front, and it looks about as fun as a root canal.
Calam’s fiddling with his camera settings at the side of the room, Mikey’s untangling or arguing with some cables, and Tarquin and Suzanna are circling the press perimeter, making sure everything’s running to their standards of PR perfection.
Musa, Gretchen, and Holly are sitting on folding chairs near the media table, red pens in hand, going over my statement like they’re grading a damn term paper. Riley’s hovering near Cassy, nodding along to whatever she’s saying with her usual people-pleasing grin.
Tammy, the makeup artist, dabs something on my forehead. Powder, I think. Smells like oranges. I’m already annoyed.
Cassy glances over and waves her hand. “Okay, he’s good.”
Tammy steps back, giving me a smile that’s probably meant to be reassuring.
I shift in my seat, resisting the urge to scratch my face. Okay. Let’s just get this over with.
Cassy’s walking toward me now, her heels clacking on the hardwood floor like she owns the damn building. Which, honestly, she might as well.
As I get up and go behind the podium, she hands me a printout. Her fingers brush mine for half a second, and I hate that I notice.
“Right,” she says, flipping a page on her clipboard. “Read me your statement. But for God’s sake, try to make it better than yesterday afternoon. Remember…just glance at your notes, try not to look down too much.”
I clear my throat. The mic isn’t on, but the entire room feels like it’s watching me.
“I, uh…” I squint down at the page. “Me and, no, the team and I, we’re all, uh, really saddened by the loss of our teammate and friend Thomas Keegan. Thumper. It’s been a difficult time, and we miss him every day.”
Pause.
I glance at her. She’s already got her arms folded, and that look on her face like she’s two seconds from jumping in.
I push on. “I’m honored to be named the new captain of the Aces, and I’m looking forward to… to building on the legacy that, uh, that Thumper helped create. I know I’ve got big shoes to fill, but I’m ready to step up and lead this team with, uh, integrity. And hard work.”
Cassy stares at me for a second, then lifts a hand. “NO!”
I stop.
“Just no. You sound half-asleep. You need to sound confident. Like a leader. Like you mean what you’re saying, not like you’re reading your kid’s homework aloud.”
I grit my teeth. “It’s your statement.”
“And now it’s your voice delivering it,” she snaps. “So, try again. This time, less ‘sad eulogy,’ more ‘actual captain.’”
I take a breath and try again. Same words, different tone.
She stops me halfway. “Still flat. You sound like you’re apologizing for being here.”
Another round.
“Okay, why are you looking at the podium like it’s going to bite you? Again, and don’t mumble. I’ve got a toddler nephew with more vocal range.”
Again.
By the fifth run-through, I’m gripping the paper so tight the edges are curling. My jaw’s tight enough to crack a molar.
She’s still not happy, as she turns to Riley like she’s reaching her limit, and she gives her a nod, some secret signal like ‘move on before he throws the podium through the wall.’
She looks back at me, exasperated. “Okay. Let’s try a mock Q&A. You’re about to be peppered by reporters who’ve had three coffees and no patience. Think you can handle that, Captain?”
I stare at her. “Just try me.”
The next thirty minutes are about as enjoyable as vascular surgery with no anesthetic. Cassy throws questions at me from every direction like she’s training me for a damn interrogation at Langley.
She doesn’t just ask, she interrupts, corrects, rephrases, sighs dramatically, and throws in helpful gems like, “That’s not what a captain would say,” and “Do you want to sound like a meathead or a leader?”
Every answer I give gets picked apart.
“Try again, Blake.”
“No, say it like you mean it.”
“Why do you sound like you’re reading a cereal box?”
By the time she’s done running me through her media boot camp, I feel like I’ve been hit with a puck to the face and then critiqued for how I fell.
I step down from the small riser stage and grab the coffee Riley left on the side table. It’s lukewarm, probably shit, but I down it anyway.
For half a second, a flash hits me, Dad, sitting on the busted old couch, Las Vegas Aces jersey stretched over his gut, beer in hand, yelling at the TV.
He always said the captain wasn’t just a player, he was the guy everyone looked to when it all went to hell.
“Watch him, Blake,” he used to say. “That’s what fire looks like. ”
I look up.
The press are all in place now. Rows of them, notepads poised, cameras lined up. Calam’s manning his rig behind a tripod, eye squinting through the viewfinder. Mikey’s already recording.
Cassy shoots me a look from near the edge of the stage, the unspoken message loud and clear: Get up there. NOW.
Okay. Here goes.
I walk to the podium. The second I step behind it, cameras start flashing like a lightning storm. The noise dies instantly. You could hear a pin drop.
And weirdly, what I feel isn’t fear. It’s not nerves. It’s the same thing I feel right before a game. That low burn in my gut. Fire.
I look down at the statement on the paper. The words feel flat, forced. Not me.
Oh, fuck it.
I don’t look at the page again. I start talking. “My name’s Blake Mitchell.” My voice is rough at first. A little shaky. But I keep going, and it evens out. Clears. Strengthens, and I speak from my heart.
“I’ve played for the Aces for a long time. This team’s my family. My brothers. And this week, we lost one of the best men I’ve ever known. Thomas Keegan. You knew him as Thumper. We knew him as heart, grit, and the guy who never once gave up, even when he had every reason to.”
I look out over the room. Every single face is locked on me.
“I miss him. We all do. There’s no pre-written statement that can wrap up what he meant to us. But I’ll say this, every time I lace up, every time I step onto that ice, I’ll be carrying him with me. We all will. Because Thumper wasn’t just a teammate. He was the Aces.”
A few camera flashes go off.
“I’ve been given the responsibility to wear the C. And I don’t take that lightly. I’m not here to be perfect. I’m here to be accountable. To lead by example. To fight for every shift, every play, every single guy on this team. Because that’s what a captain does. That’s what he did.”
I glance sideways. Cassy’s staring at me. Mouth open. Unmoving.
I finish strong. “We’re not just playing for wins this season. We’re playing for him. For his legacy. And for the city that stands behind us.”
Silence.
Then—
“Blake, over here, do you think the team’s ready to fill the void Keegan left?”
“Blake, what’s your response to critics who say you’re too aggressive to lead?”
“Blake, are you planning to adjust your playing style now that you’re captain?”
The questions fly.
But all I can think is, finally. I feel like a captain.
Once the press conference ends, it's full throttle for the rest of the day. Back-to-back drills, weight training, scrimmages so aggressive I can feel bruises blooming under my pads, and a two- hour strategy meeting that feels more like military planning than hockey.
We’re facing the Edmonton Avalanches this weekend at home, and nobody wants to get flattened on our ice.
And now? I’ve spent the better part of an hour and a half in Cassy’s office, desperately trying to be focused while we go over the media department's plan for their upcoming youth mental health campaign.
Except I’m not focused. Not even close.
Because Cassy, still bossy, still smug, still talking to me like I’m a particularly slow intern, is acting weird. Different.
It’s not obvious, but I catch her glancing at me when she thinks I’m not looking. There’s this...shift. Something tight behind her usual razor-sharp tone.
And then there’s the other thing. That night. It won’t leave me alone. Not in my head. Not in my blood.
The way her mouth curved when she moaned my name. The sight of her perfect naked body as we made love.
I run my thumb along the edge of the table just to keep my damn hands busy.
She’s tapping away on her keyboard now, lips pursed, eyes focused, her fingers flying like the keys insulted her family. Then, with a final click, she stops.
“Okay.” She looks up at me, her voice calm, like we haven’t just spent the last ninety minutes in a weird, tension-filled power match. “I think we’ll wrap up now and go over some more ideas same time tomorrow.”
I shift forward in the chair and brace my palms on my knees, ready to stand.
But her voice catches me, and she takes a breath, short, shaky, and not so confident. “Blake, I... I need to talk with you.”
Okay. That’s ominous.
And what the actual hell do I say next? Because apparently, my brain short-circuits and my mouth just... acts. “Well, how about you let me take you out for dinner tonight?”
She blinks.
I lean back slightly, watching her expression. “You can tell me then.”
Her mouth parts, like she’s going to come back with some razor-sharp retort, Cassy-style. But she doesn’t. She just pauses. Looks me dead in the eye, and says, “Yes...I think I will.”
Okay. Wasn’t expecting that.
I tilt my head a little. “If you want, we can go in my truck. And after, I can either drop you home and you grab your car tomorrow, or I’ll bring you back here later. Your call.”
She gives a tight little nod, like she’s still processing the fact she just said yes. Then, without another word, she moves back around to her desk.