8. Devon

Devon

This week has been total shit.

We flew back from Vegas to start practice right away, but reporters have been swarming the Vipers practice facility, making it impossible to get inside without a camera in your face.

Apparently, people on social media are losing their minds over the clip of me apologizing to that woman. They're calling it "sweet" and a "meet-cute" and other words that make my mouth sour.

It's like every time I turn on my TV, the sports channels are either showing a picture of my face or featuring the Vipers logo. I don't even stick around to see what they're saying because it's probably just more of the same.

Speculation on why I played so well. Speculation on why I haven't played like that before. Speculation on the mystery woman and how we know each other.

Now, it's Thursday morning before we play the Maple Leaves at home, and I'm trying to get in to talk to the administration before we have to start warming up for the game. I'm hoping if I appeal to them about the youth camp, they'll reconsider.

"Hello, Devon," Melissa says, sauntering up beside me.

"No," I huff, pulling my duffel bag close to my side like she might try to rob me. "Absolutely not. I'm not doing this shit right now."

"This kind of attitude is exactly why people don't like you."

"Oh, can you tell them that? All I've seen lately is my own ugly mug staring back at me from the TV screen."

"Maybe if you spent less time watching TV, you could spend more time working on your personality."

Letting out an exasperated sigh, I wheel around, facing her and bringing us both to a stop.

"What do you want, Melissa?"

"We need to reconvene so we can talk about your media strategy. After the game tonight—"

"You know," I say, starting to walk again and cutting her off. I hear her heels clacking on the sidewalk beside me as she tries to catch up. "There's nothing to say that I will be playing well again tonight. Last week was just a fluke."

"It wasn't a fluke," Melissa insists, panting as she struts to keep up with my pace. I consider slowing down for her momentarily, then push the idea away. She's the one harassing me, after all. "Something about that game was different. And I think it was that woman."

I come to a stop again.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I snap, scowling at her. "Are you telling people that? Is that why everyone is talking about it?"

"When you give us nothing, we have to go with what we have!" Melissa called, throwing her hands up when I turned around and started walking at double speed. "Devon, slow down! It's not a big deal!"

"Did you ever consider that she's a human being? And maybe she doesn't want her face splashed all over the media for everyone to see and ridicule?"

I ball my hands into fists at the idea of someone talking bad about her—then, I force myself to relax my hands. This is ridiculous.

"Where are you even going?" Melissa asks, breathing hard and practically jogging next to me.

"I'm headed to the administration office," I grumble, wishing she would just leave me alone.

"The admin—about that camp? They said no?"

"Of course they said no," I mutter, turning and holding the door open for her. She takes her time entering the building slowly, seemingly to catch her breath. "It's not going to make them millions of dollars."

"You know," Melissa says, her hand on her chin as we walk through the main concourse together. All around me are huge portraits of the Viper greats, including Grey Aldine, his giant face peering down at me from above. I shudder. I better not keep playing this good, or they'll inter my likeness here for the rest of eternity.

"I am a public relations expert," Melissa continues, and I blink, having forgotten she was talking. "I could help you with your pitch. You're probably all, ‘Think of the kids!' but they don't care about that stuff. We could go with an angle more like, ‘Think about how much money people will spend on tickets when they see what a good team we are! Think of the tax write-offs! Think of the lifelong Vipers fans you'll create with these camps and how much money they can funnel in throughout the rest of their lives!'"

I wrinkle my nose at her.

"That's disgusting," I grouch.

"Maybe it's disgusting, but it works. And if it means those kids might get a free summer camp with a pro, then isn't it worth it?"

"Okay, fine. You can help me," I relent, but Melissa raises her eyebrows, stopping and crossing her arms. This time, I'm the one turning back to her.

"Oh," she says, shaking her head like it's too sad, "but I won't do it for free, Devon. I'm going to need something in return."

"What do you want?" I ask. "A signed stick?"

"If I wanted a signed stick, I would go to literally any other player," she scoffs.

I roll my eyes. "Okay, so what do you want?"

"Your cooperation," she tells me.

"My cooperation?"

"Yes. You stop fighting Percy and me and work with us on this PR thing. And you actually put in the smallest amount of effort in press conferences and interacting with fans."

I drop my head back, letting out a loud groan that startles a custodian across the room. I lift my hand to them in apology.

"Think about it," Melissa says, patting me on the arm once before turning on her heel and disappearing inside the stadium.

***

We are getting our asses handed to us by the Maple Leaves. It's not even the end of the first period, and we're already down by two. Sammy has hurt his back and is on the bench, and Eddie is sporting the worst attitude of the season.

"What's wrong?" Felson, my opponent, taunts, skating past me and miming his hands under his eyes like he's crying. "Did you use up all your talent on the last game?"

In the next play, I body-check him into the glass, and they call it for roughing. Scowling, I skate over to the penalty box, my body vibrating with rage. Grey is pissed at me, the team is pissed at me, and the whole stadium full of Vipers fans—more than we've seen in a long, long while—is pissed at me.

But I never asked for this. I never wanted to be a star player. I just wanted to be on the ice and do my part. I wanted to be part of a championship team, not the shoulders that the team rode on.

And this is why, when everyone likes you for your talent, they hate you when you have a bad day.

I'm sitting in the penalty box, ruminating on my shit luck and watching the game closely, when I catch a mop of curls out of the corner of my eye. I glance up to the other side of the stadium, where a woman is sitting down, bundled up to the point of absurdity.

It's her. The woman from Vegas.

Except now she's wearing a Maple Leaves jersey. I watch her carefully take a seat and bring a cup of what looks like hot chocolate to her lips. Her eyes roam over the stadium, dropping down to the game, and I quickly look away from her, afraid our eyes might meet, and she'll catch me staring.

What is she doing here? A Golden Knights and a Maple Leaves fan? And she came all the way to Vermont to see the Leaves play instead of catching them somewhere closer?

Soon, I'm out of the box and back on the ice. Luckily, the Leaves couldn't convert the power play into a point, and the Vipers are hanging on.

As soon as my skates touch the ice, something feels different. Both determination and irritation flood throughout my body, but instead of making me fumble or miss passes, it courses through my veins like adrenaline.

I score within two minutes of being back on the ice.