Page 10 of Steel and Ice

COLT

Cameras flashed in a wall of light that nearly blinded me.

The room was colder than the hallway and far brighter than it needed to be. This wasn’t where I wanted to spend my day.

Sponsor logos plastered the wall behind the table, a mural of money. Cables ran under my shoes, snakes that wouldn’t budge. A red dot came to life on the center camera, pointed directly at me.

Press conferences were my own personal hell. Crews from broadcast television packed the aisles and beat writers hugged the front of the room as national columnists pressed in from all sides.

Along the back of the wall, conveniently tucked away from the cameras, a group of League brass watched me with their arms folded. Their suits rustled when they shifted and glared at me.

My General Manager sat near the public relations specialist, both of them with frowns on their faces.

Alex, one of the League’s public relations representatives, leaned close to me. “Two rules, Colt. Stay on message, and don’t swing.”

I’d been prepped before today’s presser. They’d made it clear: hands open, palms flat on the table.

No fists.

Numbers flew through my mind before anyone ever asked the first question. I knew what was at stake for me financially. Eight million a year on paper though six percent falls straight into escrow. Taxes carve out another huge chunk. Agent always gets his cut.

If I miss a single game, fifty thousand disappears, and that’s if they treat it as a first offense. If I wear the repeat tag, it can climb toward a hundred grand a night. Off the ice sits another one to two million in sponsorship deals which can freeze if a fight video keeps looping.

Alex leaned toward the mics. “Statement.”

My eyes met the red dot on the center camera, and I did my best to keep a neutral face.

“I take full responsibility for my actions,” I said. “I lost control, and I’m suspended. Moving forward, I’m doing the work the League requires of me to reinstate myself. That’s my statement.”

Pens immediately moved across compact notebooks as lenses clicked. A boom mic drifted closer and asked— demanded —that I say more.

One local reporter chimed in before anyone else could speak. “Mr. Mitchell, what do you say to the parents who brought their kids to this particular game?”

I shook my head. “I put something out there and I can’t take it back. I’m not proud of it, and to be honest, I’m sorry they saw it.”

A national reporter joined in. “How would you classify your temperament; do you have an anger problem?”

I looked down at my feet on top of the cables and searched for an answer.

“My job asks for contact,” I said as I returned my gaze to the reporter’s, “it’s a physical sport. I crossed a line in the game and I’m in anger management. It’s not a spin I’m placing on the story; it’s real work.”

“What triggered it?” a reporter in the back asked.

I couldn’t see her face.

“Was it all the Mercer talk?” she pressed. “The score? Personal life, relationships?”

In my mind, a Prius in a wet parking lot tried to surface. But I shoved it down and reminded myself to answer the question.

“I take ownership of what transpired,” I said. “I’m not here to sell any excuses.”

A bulb popped in the back and stole my focus.

I loathed this room. It reeked of old coffee and damp coats. The League’s top counsel murmured to someone by the door with a concerned look on their face.

Assessing me.

“You say you’re owning it,” a woman in a blue blazer said in the aisle. “But this isn’t the first time you’ve made headlines. Why should fans believe you’ll change? And, furthermore, why should sponsors believe you’ll change?”

Fuck.

League brass always freaked out anytime someone brought up the precious sponsors.

“My job is to hit clean and skate hard, to give it my best,” I answered. “And, most importantly, to remain calm. Unfortunately, in this case, I didn’t. Trust will return when I put the right kind of hockey game on the ice. Words won’t do the trick, and I know that.”

Someone called out from the back. “Are you a role model?”

“No,” I said, succinctly. I let it sit for a moment. “People watch me, and it matters. I don’t get to choose what a kid sees, it’s up to their parents. I get to choose what I do next, and that’s where I need to focus.”

Order frayed as hands extended into the air, desperately hoping they’d be called on next.

“There are reports you’ve been seen with someone connected to the anger management program outside regularly scheduled group sessions,” a man in a cheap brown suit said from the third row. “Any comment?”

I kept my eyes on the red dot and allowed the room to feel the silence.

I was stunned by his question. The nerve of it.

Alex slid in, slick as always. “We’re here to address the suspension of this player and the League’s commitment to the process.”

This player? Is that all I was in his eyes?

Brown suit reporter didn’t blink. “So that’s a yes?”

Asshole.

The room waited, but I didn’t give them Blair’s name.

I shook my head. “I’m in compliance with the program’s rules. I show up where I’m told and I do the work. That’s my answer to your question.”

The reporter scowled. “You’re dodging.”

I glared at him. “I’m answering.”

Luckily for me, a national anchor asked a question from the riser and distracted everyone.

“How much money do you stand to lose?” he asked. “I mean, if partners decide to walk?”

I pictured the stack on my agent’s desk. Sponsorships. Brand endorsements.

It can all morph into silence after one nightmare press conference.

“Partners expect better,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “And so do I.”

Brown suit piped up again. “Break down the suspension hit for us. Fans don’t really know the details of this math. Give us numbers.”

I wanted to sigh. To roll my eyes. Or to pick up my chair.

Alex nudged me with his shoulder as the man in the brown suit waited for an answer.

“At my salary,” I said, locking eyes with the reporter, “a first-game suspension costs about fifty thousand per game, and if it’s a repeat issue, it’ll cost about a hundred per game. There’s a number.”

The reporter nodded and wrote in his pad as he did math in his head. Reporters like him knew full well the cost of a nine percent hit on a roster.

A tabloid writer leaned forward with eager eyes. “You looked thrilled when you were on top of Mercer during the fight. The grin on your face; are you sure this isn’t who you are?”

I thought of the gravel parking lot. Blair’s mouth as it shaped my name.

Alex’s pen stopped, and he glanced over at me with fear in his eyes. I’d never seen this expression on his face before.

Heat climbed at my neck as the old pull pushed at my hands. It wanted the mic ripped off its stem and the logo wall creased in half.

Hands open , I reminded myself. No fists.

“I’m sure it’s not who I am,” I said, forcing a neutral look on my face.

The tabloid writer raised one eyebrow. “Mr. Mitchell, do you expect us to believe you flipped the switch already?”

I shook my head. “No, I just expect you to watch. But not in this room, on the ice.”

“What about your teammates?” the man in the brown suit asked. “How are they taking all of this?”

I grimaced. “They deserve better than a circus, and I plan to say that to their faces. Not to your cameras here today.”

He put his pen down. “Well, did you apologize to Mercer?”

“I sent a message through the team,” I answered, keeping my palms flat on the table. “I’ll do more when protocol allows me to.”

The woman in the blue blazer chimed in. “What’s your message to kids who watched the clip all week? It’s gone viral online.”

I finally recognized her from a morning show on a major network.

“I would tell them not to copy what they see in the clip,” I said. “Copy control. If you feel heat climbing, just open your hands, breathe, and skate to space. Hit clean, and if a guy is down, you let go of him. You don’t win anything when you lose yourself.”

A ripple of chatter ran along the back row, and I steeled myself.

“Timeline for a return?” blue blazer asked. “What’s ahead in the next month for Colt Mitchell?”

“I’m skating,” I said, terse. “I’m lifting weights, meeting with professionals.”

Brown suit leaned forward. “People have called you a butcher. Do you hear it?”

He almost made me flinch. I detested when the media set me up with those types of questions. Words such as butcher had the potential to spread through sports sites and articles like wildfire. Branding like that could stick to me for years.

But I braced myself.

“I’ve heard it,” I said and nodded.

“And what’s your answer? How do you respond to it?”

“I don’t,” I said, locking my eyes with his. “You asked if I’ve heard it, you didn’t ask if it’s true.”

A phony smile with no emotion behind it spread across his face. “Is it true?”

My fingers curled, but I forced them to straighten.

Hands open.

“I get paid to be on the ice, to skate. To hit clean. To score whenever I can and to keep my head. I failed at one of those, and I will fix it.”

Alex touched my sleeve to indicate time.

I leaned forward, closer to the mic. “I kept my hands open today. That’s a start. Thank you for your time.”

Chairs scraped, lenses dropped, and the red light blinked until it went completely out. I couldn’t help but notice the air had started to cool.

My phone immediately buzzed against my leg. Coach first. Second call, agent. I’d let them both go to voicemail and exited the suffocating room.

The corridor hummed with low lights that dangled above my head. More corporate logos marched along the wall, zeros on checks that never ended. League brass stood under an exit sign and watched me pass, eyeing me as if to scan for flaws.

I thought about the math, the money at stake.

Thoughts of stacked losses swirled in my head until I shoved it out and he rushed in.

Blair.

Pen held in his fist the way a man might hold a blade. The tiny tremor he strangled and choked into nonexistence. The way he said my name in the parking lot.

Every part of me wanted to push him to a wall and breathe him silent.

Hands open.

I locked the impulse away behind gritted teeth. But it didn’t care; it slipped the gate and walked beside me.

An image of Blair’s mouth when he was about to speak followed by the quick swallow he thought no one saw. The way his gaze read the whole room and then me, last.

On purpose.

There was nothing soft in that; it was precision. It cut.

I marched forward until the fluorescents no longer flashed on my skin. The community rink would be cold and honest; exactly what I needed tonight.

No podium, no red dot. Just ice that swallows restlessness, mercifully. I’d go there and skate until my legs shook, to thaw and freeze at the same time.

Through the glass in the door, I peered out into the rain as it poured outside. I hoped the water would wash thoughts of Blair from me.

But I knew they’d follow anyway.

Not in footsteps, but in my pulse. In a place buried under my ribs that refused to calm, let alone settle. I wanted restraint and the edge it inevitably sharpened.

Control first, hunger after.

Time was ticking, so I pushed through the door and went to find the cold.

The community rink practically had its own climate. Unforgiving light hung over the ice and the boards smelled of wet pine and old tape. Condensation covered most of the glass and a Zamboni slept under a tarp.

Exactly what I needed on a late night as cold rain pelted the ground outside. Ten o’clock at night, I’d practically have the place to myself. My old buddy owned the place and he’d let friends skate after hours. I’d barely made it indoors without being soaked, so first I needed to dry myself off.

I laced up on the bench and tried to distract myself. Leather creaked, laces bit, and the sheet waited for me, stretched out.

The rink was empty except for a kid who traced narrow lines at the center while his dad watched him from the bleachers, occasionally glancing over at me. Probably friends with the owner.

The boy’s cage sat crooked, and his ankles folded when he tried to turn, but he gave it his best effort.

A puck drifted as he chased it with quick little chops that made the stick chatter on the ice.

I focused on myself. My first push took part of the noise from my head but not all of it.

I carved an arc, cut to the blue, and felt the clean pull in my hips. The cold made its way in and sat there, claiming.

As I slid past the glass, I heard the dad. Not because he was loud but because he wanted it to land.

“Butcher,” he said.

It slid under my helmet and made its way to where heat liked to live within me. My hands wanted to close but for the hundredth time, I reminded myself:

Hands open.

I splayed them out on the top of the stick and gripped it before counting to two.

The urgent—the undeniable, aching push—searched for an escape hatch and found none. But my mind flashed to Blair. In my head, Blair named me something worse—and let me keep it.

I snapped back to the rink.

The kid turned and saw me then froze. His cage tilted and his eyes widened as if the lights had just come up. He kicked free and came at me in quick movements.

“Hey!” he shouted, barely containing his excitement. “You’re Colt Mitchell!”

“That’s me,” I said with a grin. “Hey, you have a puck?”

The kid nodded so hard the screws in his mask squeaked as he sprinted to the corner and came back with a puck. He clutched it to his chest, thrilled.

I skated to the front desk and found a paint pen in a jar, then signed the rubber and gave it a moment to set before I handed it to the kid who practically bounced on his skates.

The dad had made his way down to the boards, his hands buried in his coat. Fortunately, he kept his mouth shut and let his facial expression say the rest.

“Head up, hands soft,” I said. “If a guy is down, you always let go.”

“Thank you,” the kid said, the words fogging his mask and hanging for a beat.

I nodded to the dad, who tried to meet my eyes but instead continued to stare at his shoes.

After they left, I took one last lap and cut to a full stop at the far circle. The ice had done its job, taken off the edge and left the part I needed.

Outside the glass, night pressed closer, tighter than it had been before I skated.

Chicago waited with wet stone and narrow, windy streets.

I peeled off my skates and slid on my boots as I walked into the cold.

I flexed my hands until the sting finally settled.

My truck started on the first turn and warm air crept from the vents.

I steered out of the parking lot and pointed my truck toward the only thing that made sense: Blair.