Page 7 of Iced Up Love: Part Two
“I’ve got to go.”
“Go,” Christian says. “I’ve got this.”
The line disconnects.
I change fast, barely aware of what I’m doing beyond the mechanics of it, jersey off, suit jacket on, hands moving without my head really being part of it, and then someone from staff isalready at the door, waving me along like this is just another post-game obligation and not the most deranged fucking thing I’ve ever had to do.
The media room is too bright.
The lights. The cameras. The stale chill of over-conditioned air. The neat rows of seats and microphones and people pretending this is all normal while my whole body is running on adrenaline and dread.
Questions start almost as soon as I sit down.
“Jackson, what can you tell us about what happened with Bellandi out there tonight?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Was there something said on the ice that triggered that altercation?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Was the team already on edge before the incident?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
The words come out flatter every time, tighter, clipped at the edges with everything I’m forcing down beneath them.
Because what I want to say is not something I can put into a microphone.
What I want to say is someone took our woman and he was looking at the man who knew it.
What I want to say is if you’d seen Elijah’s face, you wouldn’t be asking me this shit.
What I want to say is go find her.
Instead I sit there under the lights and answer like a machine.
“We’ve noticed you’ve been less active on social media recently,” one of them says after a beat. “Is everything okay off the ice?”
My grip tightens around the edge of the table.
“I’m fine.”
It comes out shorter than it should.
Another voice cuts in before the first one is even done.
“There’s been some speculation that your public image has shifted over the last few months—”
I bite down hard on whatever rises in my throat.
“I’m focused on hockey.”
“Is that why you’ve reduced your fan engagement online?”
I look at him.
Really look at him.
