Page 115 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

But at what point is a mask really yourself? When does it merge with you? When do you become all the things you pretend to be? If you’re affecting others negatively, maybe there’s no difference at all.

A woman with fluffy blonde hair that I rarely see on native Bostonians struts in. “Mr. Larvik.”

“Yes.” I pat my tie.

Coach will hate this. Mr. Tanaka will have a coronary.

A single phrase taken out of context by the media can torpedo a career.

After all, didn’t I manage to ruin Dmitri’s career the one time I was invited to go to the press briefing room? The one time I’d happened to score? When I’d basically ruined my own career at the same time?

And yet... There’s no way I’m going to leave.

I sweep my gaze around. “Where’s Cal?”

“Mr. Prescott is in the interview room,” the woman says.

“Right.” I follow her, and every bruise I’ve ever received seems to ache through my body now.

And yet still I don’t run away.

Soon, I’ll see Cal.

The producer is talking, but her words sludge through my mind. I dart my gaze around.

“Something wrong?”

“Cal’s giving the interview, right?”

Her brows furrow slightly, then I remember she’s already assured me he’ll be the interviewer.

“That’s right,” she says with a too wide smile, the kind she’s selected on purpose, because her natural face would probably say who-the-fuck-is-this-guy-who-can’t-remember anything?

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says hastily, but she looks worried, like I might have a meltdown on live tv. Or just be super dense, which face it, would be me behaving normally.

“Remember to sit facing forward,” she says, “though you can glance at your interviewer.”

“Yes.”

The lights are way too bright. There are too many cameras and too many people sitting behind them, directing them like cannons.

I hope I don’t explode under their force.

Sports Sphere’s massive logo dominates the background.

The producer approaches me, clipboard in hand. “Mr. Larvik, there are some people here to see you before we start. They’re waiting for you.”

“Producers?”

“Your father and grandfather flew in from Minnesota. They wanted to surprise you. And Mr. Tanaka is here as well—he said he wanted to offer his support.”

The blood drains from my face. Dad. Gramps. Tanaka. All three of them here, right now, expecting me to be the Jason they think they know.

“I... where are they?”

“Just down the hall. I’ll take you. You have about ten minutes before we need you back.”