Page 40 of Penalty Box

I’d seen this a few times before, and my defenses went up instantly. “Not really. My d—”

“You’ll want this one,” he said, already waving over a camera crew.

“No cameras in the locker room,” I reminded him, but it was no use. Bob was a law unto himself, and made sure the team understood our roles as fodder to his media mill.

“Quick post-game segment for Hot Seat,” he said, as though that would make it better. “The ‘rising stars’ feature. You’re the centerfold, so to speak.”

I let out a breath through my nose and plastered on a neutral face.

“Listen, my family’s here.” I nodded toward the player’s exit. “Can we do this another time?”

Bob put his arm around me, and grinned at the crew with all his teeth. “They’ll understand. This is big exposure, and you’re a fan favorite now, Mason.”

“About that…” The reporter pushed to the front, and although I thought it impossible, was more overbearing than our PR guy. “How have you been affected by the viral sensation of that video?”

The mic was clipped to my collar, and Bob stepped out of frame. Grayson passed behind the camera, eyebrows raised. I gave him a helpless look and mouthed, “Kill me.”

He stifled a laugh and walked on.

“Mason?” The reporter called my attention back to the interview. “The viral video…”

“I thought this was a post-game segment,” I replied, looking directly into the camera. “Shouldn’t you be asking me about the win?”

“Sure, yes, I’ll get to that with my next question,” the reporter urged me along. “Let’s just get through them one at a time, okay? The video.”

Frustration warmed the back of my neck. “The video. I didn’t take it. I didn’t post it.”

There was a pause, then a stiff laugh. “But you were definitely in it, weren’t you?”

Bob was standing there nodding emphatically, and I gave in. “I was.”

“There’s no way you’re not being recognized on the street now, am I right?” The reporter’s eyes were lit up like the Fourth of July.

“I mean, people know me because of the game.”

“Sure, yes, but isn’t it true thatmorepeople know you now?”

I grabbed the mic and pulled it off my shirt. “This is a waste of my time. It’s got nothing to do with the game, and I have family waiting out there.”

“Mason, Mason…” Bob was all over me with his buttery smooth inflection and understanding eyes. “As a rising star, you have to get used to handling all kinds of tangents from the media. Professionalism first. Leave the tantrums for when the cameras are off.”

When he was finished talking, my mic was back on, and the reporter was back in action.

“You want to talk about the game, let’s do that,” he said. “Big win. And big assist from you in that last goal. How are you feeling?”

I forced a smile, assuming this was the part they’d use, and said, “Like I’ve got the best seat in the house. I get to watch Grayson Steele light it up.”

I had to fake being comfortable with the camera, but there was nothing fake about what I said.

The reporter chuckled. “Tongues are already wagging on social media. It looks like Coach McAvoy just stumbled onto a winning pair on his top line.”

A few seconds passed where nobody said anything, so I leaned toward my mic. “What’s the question?”

“Do you believe this roster is the one that’ll take San Antonio Surge to the Stanley Cup finals?” He enunciated every damn word, making the question stretch on for a week and a half, it felt like.

I couldn’t tell the guy he was asking asinine questions, and his interview skills sucked, so I shrugged, and said, “Who’s to say?”

After all, a bad interviewer deserved a bad interviewee.