don’t have a shot against the Lions. What do you say?”
I look at her. “Never take any team for granted. Anything can happen.”
“May I take some pictures?” She’s not even looking at me, just pulls up her phone and clicks away while I stand there. One of the photographer guys is behind her, probably with her, and he’s clicking away too.
My head hurts and I frown.
She moves her phone. “Can I get one of you and Eric together? And then Reece? The three amigos, right?”
“Uh…”
She smiles and flutters long lashes, and I swear she sticks her boobs out more and her voice gets all breathy. “I think it’s cool that you were drafted and yet you chose to finish college.”
“Yeah.”
She nods, her gaze going past me and following someone on the ice. “How does Reece handle not being drafted?”
“I don’t speak for him. Ask him yourself.” I scowl, trying to think of a way out of this little interrogation, but I don’t see one.
Eric must read my body language because he skates over to where we are. He gives me a long look then gives her a broad smile.
“Eric! Just stand there, yeah,” she says as he leans in next to me for a picture. She takes a few shots. “Can you get Reece? A shot of you three together for tomorrow’s Tribune would be stellar.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her no, but then I see Stan a few feet away, watching us with keen eyes and probably imagining I’m racking up reporter points when really all I want is to get away.
Or maybe he’s wondering if I’m even worth having on their team.
I’m not worth it.
My gut twists.
I’m a bag of shit for what I did to Willow—
Stop! I shake off the negative thought.
The reporter is still asking questions, waving now and then to get Reece’s attention.
Eric looks over at me, dropping the arm that was around my shoulder for the pictures. His mouth is turned down. “Dude. You need a break.”
“I’m fine.”
“Reece,” she’s saying again, waving, but it’s clear he’s ignoring her. I can’t really blame him when all they want to do is talk about me or ask him why he’s not on the same level.
She looks back at us, batting those lashes. “Looks like he’s busy. Can I get some video of you two messing around with the puck? Just one?”
My arm is starting to tingle and my chest feels tight.
“Sure, babe,” says Eric, giving me a slap on the back. “Focus. Let’s do a drill for this nice lady.”
My lips compress. “Don’t tell me to focus. I know what I need to do.”
He stiffens. “Dude…”
“Z and Eric? The video?” calls the reporter.
My teeth snap. Enough. “No,” I say to her then skate off toward an exit. I step on the carpet, slap on my guards, and walk down the hallway.
“Z! Hey, wait up,” says a deep voice behind me, and I don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.
I wipe at my face, tucking my gloves under my arms as Stan walks toward me. Dressed in a suit that screams money, he’s a former NHL player who retired early with a back injury.
“Sorry, I’m a little off today. Just working the jitters out.” I force a smile and try to laugh, but it doesn’t sound right.
“I see.” He stops next to me and gives me a critical eye. I know what he thinks he sees: talent and money, his team’s investment.
But…
My heart picks up a notch and that clammy feeling starts a slow rise from my feet to my scalp. My stomach lurches a little, and I feel sweat beading on my face.
I nod as he talks about where I want to eat dinner, but my head isn’t with him. It’s taking all my mental concentration to just…to just…
“…Z?”
I blink.
“Son?”
I lift my hand and wipe at my mouth, pretending like I’m fine, trying to come up with some kind of normal mannerism or response to whatever he’s asking.
His hand is on my shoulder and his brow is furrowed as he looks at me. “Son, you’re shaking.”
I am?
I blink and look down. I look okay. I look fine.
But…
My chest hurts.
I rub at it. “I’m good, sir.”
I don’t know how I get the words out, and I must not do a very good job because he guides me until I’m sitting on a chair. He’s pushing my head down between my legs and barking out orders.