Page 4 of The Grumpy Defenseman
“Sully Sullivan. Head coach.”
That tracked. He had the look: solidly built, eyes that measured first and spoke second.
“McKinney give you any trouble yesterday?” he asked, watching the room rather than me.
“No trouble. Just a short conversation.”
“He’s not unfriendly,” Sully said.
He watched Brick add another plate to the rack and spoke without looking at me.
“Contract year for him. Walsh has a timeline. Everybody in this building has a timeline for McKinney this summer.” The mildness in his voice did not soften any of it. “I’ve got a defenseman I need inside his own head come October. That’s my timeline.Keep that consideration in mind when planning his campaign photos.”
It was not a threat. It was a head coach making sure I understood the stakes on his side of the fence before I walked any further into his building.
“Understood,” I said.
“Good.” He finally looked at me. Half a second of that measuring gaze. “For what it’s worth, he’s worth the patience.”
He drifted off toward the forward line, hands still in his pockets, and the room made space for him the way water moved around a stone.
Then the facility door opened, and every head recalculated.
Evan McKinney walked in with the contained energy of a man who carried his own weather system. Gray workout shirt, headphones looped around his neck but not on. He scanned the room once, the same methodical sweep I had watched yesterday, and his gazelanded on me for approximately one-third of a second before moving on.
Noted. Filed. Dismissed.
Good morning to you too, Mr. Sunshine.
The nickname had arrived in my head sometime between last night’s wine and this morning’s coffee, and it fit with the snug precision of a lens cap. Mr. Sunshine. For the man who radiated approximately zero warmth and treated eye contact like a tactical liability.
He moved to the sled push station and began warming up with the efficiency of someone who had been doing this since his tendons had formed. No wasted motion. No chatting with teammates. Just a body in controlled motion.
I shot him from three angles, keeping my distance. Wide enough to show the environment. Tight enough to catch the details: corded forearms, perfect balance, the way his center of gravity stayed level through every push. Technically excellentimages. The kind the communications staff would approve without hesitation.
And completely dead.
That was the problem with photographing someone who knew how to control what his body communicated. Every image I captured was a press release. Correct. Careful. The man equivalent of a locked door with a Do Not Disturb sign.
I lowered my camera and considered the problem. Somewhere behind that performance was the person who had tied a five-year-old’s shoe without thinking. That man did not know he was being watched. That man existed in the unguarded seconds between one pose and the next.
I just had to find those seconds again.
When practice wound down, and players began filtering toward the showers, I intercepted Evan near the equipment rack. He was wiping down a kettlebell with the focused attention of a man who had nowhere else to be, which we bothknew was a lie.
“McKinney,” I said. “I need ten minutes tomorrow. One-on-one session for the campaign materials.”
He set the kettlebell down. Straightened. Gave me the full weight of his attention for the first time, which turned out to be considerable.
“Why?”
“Because PR scheduled it. And because I’m good at my job.”
He studied me. Not a glance. An actual assessment. Eyes tracking my face the way they tracked the ice, looking for tells and patterns that would let him predict my next move.
“You won’t get what you want,” he said.
“Maybe not.” I held his gaze. “But I’ll get something.”
