Page 93 of Grizz

The refs don’t see the whack.

They never see it.They see the puck, they see the clock, they see the obvious.They don’t see the cheap-shot shit that happens in the shadows—behind legs and bodies, behind the story they’ve already decided they’re watching.

My legs throb where his stick caught me.The pain is biting and hot, and it stacks right on top of the miss, right on top of the buzzer and the split second where the prettiest sight in hockey turned into an empty net and a skipped puck.

The crowd is still roaring, but now it’s a different kind of noise—rage mixed with disappointment, accented by disbelief.I can feel it vibrating through the boards and every instinct in my body tells me to go after that fucker and make him pay for that chop.I consider it.I watch as he celebrates with his teammates and I know if I go over there… if I retaliate, the benches will clear.It will be a free-for-all.

Instead, I turn my back.My blood is boiling as I step over the wall, one skate at a time, hands heavy on my stick.My chest is heaving from anger as much as exhaustion.I want nothing more than to destroy something or someone.

Anything will do.

I need to get off the ice and into the locker room.I need to get away from the lights and the noise and the expectation that I’m a better human than people usually give me credit for.

I’m halfway toward the tunnel when a voice cuts through everything.“Grizz!Grizz!Over here—Grizz!”

A TV reporter, perched by the bench with a mic in her hand and a camera operator already angling the lens.Her eyes are bright, hungry, but the last thing I want is a microphone in my face, so I ignore her, turning toward the tunnel.

And nearly run Daisy over.I see the empathy in her eyes for the loss, for that failed goal.But I also see that she’s in business mode, her expression calm and controlled, bracing for impact and trying to prevent the building from collapsing.

I keep moving, stepping past her.

“Grizz,” Daisy calls, her hand grabbing onto the sleeve of my sweater, and I’m forced to stop.Her voice is patient but stern.“Nationally televised game.They get one postgame interview with whoever they want.You know the deal, same as always.”

I stare at her as though I don’t recognize her.“Now?”I grind out, my fury refusing to dissipate.

“I know,” she says, quick.“But yes.Now.”

My anger sloshes around inside me, looking for somewhere to go.I want to shove it into the locker room, into the walls, my gloves.I want to swallow it whole.

Instead, I turn toward the reporter because the cameras are already on me and because Daisy is right, and because in this league you don’t just play hockey—you perform compliance.

The reporter smiles.“Grizz McAvoy,” she says, mic lifted.“Tough loss tonight.We’re live—” She shoots a look at the camera operator.“Roll it.”

A red light blinks on the camera.The building’s noise fades into a distant roar.All I hear is my own breathing.

“So, Grizz,” she says brightly, “what’s your overall takeaway from this game?”

I blink at her.I can feel sweat cooling under my gear, turning clammy.“We didn’t get it done,” I say.“We had chances.We didn’t finish.”

She nods like that’s adorable.

“And the ending there,” she presses, eyes narrowing.“You had a wide-open look at the net in the final seconds.What happened?”

My jaw flexes.“Puck bounced.”

“Just a bad hop?”

“Yep.”

She leans in a fraction.“You looked frustrated.Were you rattled by the physical play?We saw a lot of contact from Buffalo—especially number 15.”

I can feel Daisy’s presence beside me, like a hand hovering over a switch.I know what she wants:Don’t.I know what she needs:Control.

The reporter keeps her smile, but her eyes are knives.“Do you think the referees let too much go tonight?”

I stare at her.My grip tightens around my stick.“No comment.”

Her smile doesn’t falter.“No comment.Okay.But fans are going to wonder—do you think that impacted your ability to make the play at the end?”