Page 46 of Pucking One Night Stand

“Right,” she says, flipping a page on her clipboard. “Read me your statement. But for God’s sake, try to make it better than yesterday afternoon. Remember…just glance at your notes, try not to look down too much.”

I clear my throat. The mic isn’t on, but the entire room feels like it’s watching me.

“I, uh…” I squint down at the page. “Me and, no, the team and I, we’re all, uh, really saddened by the loss of our teammate and friend Thomas Keegan. Thumper. It’s been a difficult time, and we miss him every day.”

Pause.

I glance at her. She’s already got her arms folded, and that look on her face like she’s two seconds from jumping in.

I push on. “I’m honored to be named the new captain of the Aces, and I’m looking forward to… to building on the legacy that, uh, that Thumper helped create. I know I’ve got big shoes to fill, but I’m ready to step up and lead this team with, uh, integrity. And hard work.”

Cassy stares at me for a second, then lifts a hand. “NO!”

I stop.

“Just no. You sound half-asleep. You need to sound confident. Like a leader. Like you mean what you’re saying, not like you’re reading your kid’s homework aloud.”

I grit my teeth. “It’s your statement.”

“And now it’s your voice delivering it,” she snaps. “So, try again. This time, less ‘sad eulogy,’ more ‘actual captain.’”

I take a breath and try again. Same words, different tone.

She stops me halfway. “Still flat. You sound like you’re apologizing for being here.”

Another round.

“Okay, why are you looking at the podium like it’s going to bite you? Again, and don’t mumble. I’ve got a toddler nephew with more vocal range.”

Again.

By the fifth run-through, I’m gripping the paper so tight the edges are curling. My jaw’s tight enough to crack a molar.

She’s still not happy, as she turns to Riley like she’s reaching her limit, and she gives her a nod, some secret signal like ‘move on before he throws the podium through the wall.’

She looks back at me, exasperated. “Okay. Let’s try a mock Q&A. You’re about to be peppered by reporters who’ve had three coffees and no patience. Think you can handle that, Captain?”

I stare at her. “Just try me.”

The next thirty minutes are about as enjoyable as vascular surgery with no anesthetic. Cassy throws questions at me from every direction like she’s training me for a damn interrogation at Langley.

She doesn’t just ask, she interrupts, corrects, rephrases, sighs dramatically, and throws in helpful gems like, “That’s not what a captain would say,” and “Do you want to sound like a meathead or a leader?”

Every answer I give gets picked apart.

“Try again, Blake.”

“No, say it like you mean it.”

“Why do you sound like you’re reading a cereal box?”

By the time she’s done running me through her media boot camp, I feel like I’ve been hit with a puck to the face and then critiqued for how I fell.

I step down from the small riser stage and grab the coffee Riley left on the side table. It’s lukewarm, probably shit, but I down it anyway.

For half a second, a flash hits me, Dad, sitting on the busted old couch, Las Vegas Aces jersey stretched over his gut, beer in hand, yelling at the TV. He always said the captain wasn’t just a player, he was the guy everyone looked to when it all went to hell. “Watch him, Blake,” he used to say. “That’s what fire looks like.”

I look up.