2. Graham #2
“Center mark, Graham. Keep the jacket front-facing.”
“I’m standing where you put me.”
The answer vanished beneath a burst of camera shutters. Reporters crowded against the rope line, extending microphones and recorders toward him until his chest looked barricaded by equipment. Behind them, television lights washed the pen in white glare.
Graham adjusted the collar of the jacket and caught the backdrop over one reporter’s shoulder.
The franchise logo occupied one side. Ice Royalty filled the other.
Of course it did.
The launch machine had attached itself to everything this week, but at least nobody was asking him to pose yet. Hockey questions he could handle. Hockey made sense.
“Graham! Over here, please! Incredible Game 6 victory!”
A reporter thrust a recorder between two microphones.
“Your wrist shot just forced Game 7. How are the shoulders holding up after getting hammered against the glass all night?”
The ache from the boards returned the moment the man mentioned it. Graham shifted his weight rather than rub his throbbing shoulder in front of fifty cameras.
“The bench staff built a flawless structure for us to execute. The defensemen pulled the coverage and opened the lane. My only concern right now is carrying that pace into Wednesday.”
“So there’s no concern about the hit?” someone called from his left.
Graham turned toward the voice. “I finished the game. That’s enough of an answer.”
A few reporters laughed. Pens moved across notepads. Another camera flash burst against his eyes.
This part, at least, I know how to do.
The irritation from the tunnel had already started to fade. Questions came fast, but each one had rules. Positioning. Tempo. Matchups. Recovery. Give them enough without handing the opposition anything useful.
A second journalist leaned over the rope.
“There are whispers that the roster is running on empty. Do you actually have the legs left to push through and finally hoist the Cup?”
That one earned a murmur from the press pack.
Graham leaned into the microphones.
“That doubt is exactly what this locker room is built to absorb. This city puts a lot of faith in our roster, and we intend to give them a finish worth remembering.”
“Even after six games of this pace?”
“That pace is why we’re still playing.”
“What changes for Game 7?”
“Nothing reckless.” Graham glanced across the clustered recorders. “We protect the puck, stay disciplined through the neutral zone, and make them defend every inch. Tonight proved we can do that under pressure.”
The questions kept coming from both sides. His shoulder ached beneath the jacket, sweat dried against his back, and he still had not touched the water Riley had been holding for him.
Yet the rhythm of the exchange came easier with every answer.
This was the version of himself the cameras wanted: captain first, scorer second, no complaint worth printing. Graham knew the script because most of it was true. The room expected certainty from him, and after forcing another game into existence, certainty was one thing he had plenty of.
A reporter raised his hand above the microphones.
“Captain, one more on Wednesday—”
Graham turned toward him as another bank of cameras flashed across the backdrop.
For the moment, every question in front of him was still about hockey.
A reporter lowered his recorder to check the screen, and Graham used the gap to look past the press line.
Riley stood beyond the cameras, still holding his bottle.
He couldn’t help but smile. She had waited. The walk to the set and the hockey questions had eaten the thirty seconds he had asked for, but she was still there, one shoulder turned toward the wall while staff moved around her.
“Hold center, Graham,” someone from the network said. “We’re still live.”
“I’m here.”
His attention stayed on Riley for another beat.
A PR handler crossed between them.
The woman lifted an arm across Riley’s path before she could move closer to the rope. “Riley, I need you to clear the boundary and step backward, please. You’re catching the glare from the flashes and compromising the clean shot of the jacket.”
Graham shifted away from the microphones.
Riley raised his bottle. “I’m holding his water for the second he finishes the presser. I promise I won’t step inside the camera line.”
“I can stay behind the rope,” she added. “I’m not asking to come onto the set.”
The handler pointed farther toward the rear wall. “Back perimeter only.”
The collar of Graham’s jacket rubbed his throat when he twisted to keep them in view. He had spent the last ten minutes talking about discipline and structure while the one person he wanted after the game was being managed like an extra who had wandered onto the wrong set.
Just let her stand there.
Graham started to step away from the microphones, ready to end the argument himself.
Before he moved, the handler spoke again.
“This is a closed set for apparel talent. I need you at the back perimeter before the board members come in.”
Riley’s mouth flattened. She tightened her grip on the bottle, then took a step in the direction the handler indicated.
Graham kept his eyes on the handler instead of the reporter waiting beside him.
It was excessive. She was his wife, not a stranger trying to crash an interview, and nobody in the room needed a spotless camera line badly enough to push her out of sight.
Still, the press area was packed shoulder to shoulder. Reporters leaned over the rope, camera operators shifted for angles, and staff kept cutting through the narrow lanes behind them. Riley hated this kind of crush. Keeping her clear of it for a few minutes was not the worst outcome.
A team executive appeared beside Graham and gestured toward the cameras.
“Apologies for the logistical distraction, Graham. Let’s redirect our focus forward and secure the footage for the network crew.”
Graham looked past him.
Riley had reached the stanchion near the back wall. The bottle remained in her hand. She was farther away now, but Graham could still tell himself she was out of the press crush and only waiting a few more minutes.
He swallowed his irritation, knowing the segment was almost over.
He could finish the segment, take the bottle from her, and get them out of the arena.
Another reporter lifted a microphone toward him.
“Graham, can we get one more before you go?”
He turned his shoulders back toward the press line.
“Go ahead.”
The cameras resumed firing across the backdrop as the next question cut through the noise.
Graham kept his focus on the microphones while Riley disappeared behind the stanchion.
The next hockey question never came.
A PR staffer stepped between two reporters and held up a hand. “Hold your position, Graham. We’re switching the setup.”
Graham glanced toward the man. “Switching to what?”
A sudden staccato of shutters answered before the staffer could.
Nicolle entered the pen in the women’s version of the Ice Royalty line, the cut of her jacket matching his without looking like a uniform. She crossed straight to him, slid her arm through his, and turned toward the cameras as if the move had been rehearsed on the walk over.
“Apparently us,” she said.
The press line surged forward.
Graham adjusted his stance when her shoulder settled against his. Floral perfume cut through the smell of his damp gear. The contact meant nothing. They had spent enough campaign days taking direction from photographers that a linked arm barely qualified as a pose anymore.
This is a sales pitch.
A sports reporter tried to reclaim the floor. “Graham, on the question of endurance—”
“Oh, Graham has the endurance to handle the run,” Nicolle cut in. “This playoff push is about flawless synergy, guys.”
Cameras swung toward her.
Graham left his arm exactly where it was. Pulling away now would create a story where none existed, and the brand team would spend the next week cleaning up a photograph that should have taken five seconds.
Nicolle leaned into the microphones. “I’m the only person who can translate his ambition on the ice. That connection is why we’re going to own the front pages tomorrow.”