Page 41 of What We Knew Then
Ifyou’daskedmewhat my personal version of hell looked like, I’d give you some version of a press conference: forced smiles and a microphone shoved in my face while strangers dissected my mistakes.
Apparently, Great Lakes U calls it The Otter Outing. This place and their god damn puns or whatever the hell you’d call that.
Technically, it’s a ‘meet the team’ event. The rink is packed for an open practice—boosters, students, local press, and alumni who still think they could’ve gone pro if not for blowing out their knees.
I tug at the collar of my practice jersey, skating in circles while cameras flash. My teammates seem to love it—I can practically count Leo’s teeth with how wide his fucking grin is. In Ohio, we had nothing like this.
I’m still learning how to fit inside this rink, it seems.
“Lighten up,” an assistant mutters as he skates past. “You look like you’re being asked to get a public root canal.”
I shoot him a look and follow it with, “Root canal might be better.”
He laughs and it carries this lightness I’ve not seen much around hockey. Feeling it here… it’s almost misplaced.
I glance toward the boards—and there she is. Cora. Clipboard in hand. Hair pulled back tight, expression focused like this matters. She’s talking quietly with a reporter, pointing at a sheet and nodding with polite authority.
She hasn’t looked at me yet.
Good.I try to convince myself that’s how I want it. The whole thing is fucking infuriating.
We run drills. Media shifts around the glass. I try to lose myself in movement—edges, breath, rhythm—but I can feel the eyes on me, each one a weight added to my shoulders. Why is this worse than playing a game? Maybe because we’re almost showing off? Again, it’s hard to find the difference. I try to reconcile with the pit in my stomach, but just when I think I might have a grip on it, practice ends.
We stand at center ice, sweat cooling on my skin as Coach gives his practiced welcome speech. Cameras roll. Applause. The works.
Then we break for the press. Or, what I’d call, an actual nightmare.
The open practice was already a circus, but this—this is the real show. Bright lights. Long table. Microphones lined up, one for each guy on the roster, and a folded name tag telling me I should sit between Leo and Matty.
I take my seat, jaw tight and hands folded as if I’m trying to convince myself I belong here. Coach stands off to the side, arms crossed and watching everything.
I hear her laugh before I see her. Cora with her picture-perfect posture, holding a clipboard and pen. Looking like she has it all figured out.
To my complete and utter horror, they’re doing questions one player at a time.
The veterans get easy ones. The fan favorites get laughs. A few guys even get applause when their names are called. Everyone here has history. They’re comfortable. It’s clear this is one of the events some of them look forward to.
When they get to me, there’s a pause. A beat too long. It’s like the silence has a string connected to my spine and as it stretches, I sit straighter.
A reporter clears his throat. “So—uh—welcome to Great Lakes U. What made you choose the program?”
Some people suck in a breath because most know I didn’t choose this place. Coach picked me. Saved my ass. So, I give the answer that can’t get me in any trouble.
“I’m excited to play for Coach Banks. Guy’s a legend. I’m lucky to be part of this group of players and am hoping for a great season.”
Another pause. Someone flips through notes. A booster leans toward the person next to him and whispers something I can’t hear.
Then another reporter speaks.
“Are you finding your groove with the other team members? It has to be hard to slip into a roster that’s almost untouched from last season.” Someone coughs during the seconds that stretch between the seemingly rhetorical question before he continues. “Seems like you haven’t found it yet.”
This is the politically correct way to ask:did you know you’re playing like shit? Believe me, I know. Every athlete knows when they’re off, we don’t need anyone to point that out.
One of my teammates lets out a low whistle—probably Leo—and it feels like the room is frozen. Everyone wagers internally on who will move first.
Leo looks down to me, back to the guy asking the question, and starts to talk.
I cut him off. No one will pity me while I’m sitting here like some PR monkey. Shaking my head, I try to answer the almost impossible question.
