6. Devon

Devon

"Where did this performance come from, Chambers?"

I'm sitting at the front of the room, three microphones in my face, staring out at a sea of media people, all pointing their cameras in my face. They're waving their hands at me, trying to get me to call on them for a question. It feels like a circus.

The room is too bright, the lights are glaring, and all I want to do is crawl into a warm bed.

"Yeah, come on, why don't you ask me the same question again? I've only answered it a hundred times."

The journalist who asked the question winces, but I don't feel sorry for him. Aren't these people supposed to be creative? And the best they can come up with is asking me about how I played over and over again?

I had a good game. I don't really see how much more to it there is.

"Chambers, over here," one journalist calls, and I direct my attention to them, gesturing for them to ask away. If they ask about the game one more time, I'm leaving.

"Yeah, thanks. I just wanted to ask the question I'm sure we're all curious about: Did you know that woman in the stands today?"

I balk at the question, not expecting it. I want to go back in time and undo my snap at the other reporter. For some reason, I would rather they ask me questions about hockey all day because I can't stand the thought of talking about her.

What do they want me to say?

That I couldn't stop looking at her during the entire game? That when I was crouching there, ready to fight for the puck during the face-off, it was the first time I had truly felt the passion for hockey in a long time?

Playing as someone else's wingman can be rewarding. It's regular, consistent, fun work. But it's not the same as being the superstar. Throughout Grey's career, there were many times I wasn't sure I wanted what he had. It meant the press was a lot more interested in what he did. It meant that, when it came down to him and Ellie, his wife, he had to be a lot more private. That people were a lot more eager to dig into his life.

"Chambers?" the reporter prompts, inciting a ripple of laughter through the rest of the crowd. I clear my throat, realizing I zoned out. I wonder how long I was sitting here, thinking and looking like a goon in front of the cameras.

"No," I finally answer, my voice sharp and to the point. "Of course not. I was just being nice. Saying sorry when a woman got scared because of my shitty shot."

If they were hoping for a bunch of romantic garbage, they sure as shit were not going to get it from me.

"Oh, okay," the reporter says, shaking his head at his cameraman as if to say don't even bother. Good. I don't want them asking me any more questions about her.

"How are you and Coach Grey getting along?" another reporter asks, and I can't keep myself from groaning.

"Y'all know we're best friends," I say, standing up and shaking my head. I mean to switch the mic off, but I must not hit the right button because I hear my voice ringing through the room when I mutter, "Making me sit here while you ask a bunch of dumb-ass questions."

I grimace as I exit the stage, ducking behind the curtain. That is not going to go over well.

***

"Do you understand the point of a press conference, Chambers?" Melissa—the Viper's PR representative—questions, leaning over a chair and staring down at me with a pointed glare. She's the most well-groomed person I've ever seen in my life. I've never seen a single hair on her head look out of place.

I guess if you're going to tell people how to maintain their public appearance, you should be great at maintaining yours.

"To torture me?" I guess, trying and failing not to look like a toddler getting a dressing down from his mom.

"Content!" Melissa exclaims, throwing her hands in the air. "Sure—what you did tonight is definitely going to make rounds online, but nobody is saying anything nice about you."

After the press conference, I wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel and sleep the entire encounter off, but Percy, the team's social media manager, and Melissa found me and dragged me to a conference room in the hotel for an emergency meeting. I thought someone had died. I thought I accidentally showed my bare ass on live television. What I hadn't expected was for them to critique me on my entire personality.

"Like I care," I mutter, and Melissa circles around, pointing one perfectly manicured finger at me.

"You do care," she says, "if you care about the Vipers at all. People don't come to these games because they love freezing their tits off or spending all their money at the pro shop. They come for the players. They come to support you. And if you're up there, acting like an ass, they don't want to come. Can you get that through your thick skull?"

"I'm a hockey player, not a performer," I riposte.

Melissa shakes her head, turning away from the table like she can't stand to look at me anymore. As soon as she leaves, Percy slides into the chair across from me. He's as hipster as they come, with thick black glasses and a beanie. I want to tell him that even I know that's way out of style, but he doesn't let me get a word in.

"But that's the thing, Devon! Hockey is a performance! People buy tickets; they come to see what you can do! And they'll be more likely to buy tickets if they like you, man."

I cross my arms, a growl rising in my throat. I don't like this guy calling me "man" like we're best buddies. I've spoken to him maybe twice in my life, and both times weren't pleasant. Once, he tried to get me to do some dance for a social media app. I made sure he wouldn't be asking me again.

Brett was all too happy to do those little dances before he went and busted his leg in three places.

"I think we really need to play the angle of this mystery woman," Melissa says, coming up next to Percy and putting her hand on his chair. She has her phone in her hand and is peering down at it. "She looks so familiar, but reverse image search isn't helping. It just keeps giving me other pictures of Golden Knights fans."

"Do I need to be here for this?" I ask, looking between the two of them. "Unlike the two of you, I just spent two hours getting the shit beat out of me. I'm tired. And I would like a shower."

Percy stands up and looks over Melissa's shoulder at her phone, ignoring me.

"You're right," he says, running a hand over his chin. "She does look familiar."

I don't want to talk about the mystery woman anymore. I don't want to think about her. Sure, maybe her presence caused me to play the best game of my career, but there are two problems with that: first, she's a Golden Knights fan, and second, I'll probably never see her again.

"Okay, fine, Devon," Melissa finally relents, tearing her eyes from the screen. "You're free to go. But—just think about it. Mull it over. Remember that your team doesn't just depend on you out on the ice—they need you to keep this team relevant and profitable in the league."

I want to roll my eyes and retort to that by asking how and why, if the Vipers are so profitable, my youth camp was turned down. Hockey isn't about money. At least, it shouldn't be.

But thinking about my sizeable bank account, I alter the statement. Hockey shouldn't always be about money. As I leave and head back to my hotel room, I consider the possibility of putting on a different youth hockey camp.

But the Vipers won't sponsor it or likely even allow me to hold it at the arena without a sizable fee. I'll have to find a different venue.

I make a note on my phone to do some research before I push into my hotel room, shower as quickly as possible, and fall into bed.