my post-game comedown—it made the time between the game and the pressers stretch out and feel like days or weeks instead of half an hour.
But I’d learned a long time ago how to provide bullshit answers that got the job done without tipping my hand too far. That also kept these interviews blessedly short instead of dragging them out until I had to pull myself down again.
Forcing a nervous smile, I shrugged. “It’s the same plan with any play—get the puck away from our goal and into theirs. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”
“What about in the third period?” another reporter pushed her microphone closer to my face, probably unaware of how much that made my skin crawl. “It looked like your line had a solid play in the works, but then it all fell apart. What happened there?”
“We just didn’t play it as cleanly as we should’ve. And the—” Shit, who did we play tonight? “The other team was on their game, so they got the puck away from us.”
The questions kept going for another ten minutes, and finally, they all started pulling away to grill Coach and a few of my other teammates. Once I was absolutely sure I was clear of every camera and hot mic, I released a breath and rolled my shoulders. Then I toweled off my back and neck, which were sweaty from the interview. There were rumors that I never wore a shirt during post game pressers because I was just vain and liked the way I looked on-camera. And some of the guys did wait to put on shirts until after the pressers for exactly that reason.
With me? The truth was, the interviews made me sweat, and it was less obvious if I was shirtless and had just stepped out of the shower. Plus it meant I didn’t have to swap out my T-shirt after the interview. My teammates were way more relaxed about all this than I was, so they could go either way, but no, I had to strategize and plan every goddamned thing so I didn’t have to change my shirt after every interview.
As if the games themselves weren’t exhausting enough.
Bright and early the next morning, our team’s jet took off, and we all settled in for the five-hour flight to San Diego for tomorrow night’s game.
Beside me, Kuznetsov closed his eyes and breathed deeply as he white-knuckled the armrest.
As the plane leveled out, I asked, “You good?”
Eyes still closed, he swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah.”
“Hang in there, man.” I gave his forearm a friendly squeeze. “You want me to get you a drink when they come around?”
Another nod.
Most of us didn’t drink much during the season, aside from partying now and then or a glass of something with dinner. But just like everyone accepted that I needed half an hour to pull my head together after a game, we all knew that Kuznetsov needed a drink or two to get him through a flight. He never got drunk, and he rarely had more than that second drink, but he was terrified of flying. Maybe self-medicating wasn’t the best thing for him, but until someone came up with a healthier way to get a player from Point A to Point B without falling apart, none of us were going to give him grief for a little alcohol.
When the flight attendant came by, I got some water for myself and a Seven & Seven for Kuznetsov. After a couple of sips, he started to slowly relax just like he always did. I’d still keep an eye on him—turbulence didn’t bother me, but it could have him hyperventilating in no time. I didn’t know how he coped with all the constant flying throughout the year. He insisted it was just something he had to knuckle through if he wanted to play hockey, so he dealt with it, but I wasn’t so sure I’d have been able to weather it like he did. He had his limits, though—there was a reason he paid for his parents to come visit during the off season instead of flying to Russia to visit them himself. And he flew them first class the whole way, so they didn’t complain.
While Kuznetsov kept himself as calm as he could at thirty-some-odd thousand feet, I sipped my water and watched some of my other teammates. In particular, Jameson.
He was two rows up from me in a rear-facing seat, and like he often did on road trips, he’d brought his