Page 87 of Over the Line

“Me too,” I said under my breath. “Think we’ll get lucky and he’ll miss the bus to the arena?”

He chuckled and raised his glass. “From your lips to the hockey gods’ ears.”

The hockey gods weren’t listening, because we did not in fact get so lucky. As we got ready for our game the next day, Jack Arlen came strolling into the locker room along with Marcus, our team reporter. From the big shit-eating grin on his smug fucking face, he’d had a great night. Hopefully he’d earned the right to be that full of himself; only his hookup would know. I just hoped she’d had a good night, too.

She was gone now, though, and we were all stuck with him. Great.

He wandered the locker room, asking various players questions I couldn’t hear. He was in his usual form, judging by the sour looks and head shakes my teammates gave him whenever he was finished.

“Can’t we have like a petition?” Temo asked from the stall next to mine. “Get enough signatures and they take away his press credentials?”

“Or launch him into the sun,” Chris growled from my other side.

I laughed. “God, I wish. I’d sign the shit out of that.”

“Right?” We chuckled and exchanged fist bumps.

And fuck me… Jack came strolling over to our side of the room. My hackles went up. I was pretty sure Chris and Temo’s did as well; it was a natural reaction around this douchecanoe.

With his stupid grin still firmly in place, Jack said, “Temo, hey, how’s it going?”

Temo regarded the dickhole reporter warily, which was the correct response. “Uh. Good?”

“Great. Listen, before you go out there, I wanted to ask you a few things. Do you mind a quick interview?”

Temo’s eyes flicked toward me, and I quickly recognized the “please stay close in case I need someone to run interference” look on his face. I gave him a subtle nod.

“Sure,” Temo said with an extra-fake media smile. “Why not?”

Jack grinned. “I wanted to ask about your last few games.”

Temo’s smile fell. My spine straightened. Temo hadn’t had a point in three games; he’d been playing well, but the hockey gods had been dicks to him.

Guard fully up, Temo said, “Okay.”

“You’ve been pointless in your last three games,” Jack said, sounding exaggeratedly concerned. “And goalless in your last five. There are rumors you’re dealing with an injury—is that true?” From his tone, he didn’t believe for a second that it was. He just wanted Temo to self-flagellate and admit he hadn’t been playing well.

Temo straightened to his full height. Though he was only five-foot-eight, his skates brought him up nearly eye-to-eye with Jack. With a dismissive half-shrug, he said, “No injury. They haven’t been my best games.”

“If goals could have three assists on them,” I interjected, “he’d have several points in those games.”

Jack eyed me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean two of my secondary assists came from passes from Temo.” I gestured at Chris. “At least one of his did, too.” Inclining my head, I added, “If you want, we can review some film and see how many more there were.”

Jack’s lips thinned.

Temo suppressed a laugh. “Thanks, Captain. And yeah, I do want to get back on the scoreboard. It’s frustrating. All I can do is play the next game better than the last one.”

“Are you sure there isn’t anything holding you back, though?” Jack asked. “A lot of people are saying you’ve missed a step since you hurt your knee last season.”

My hackles went up yet again.

Temo glared at Jack. “A lot of people? What people?”

“You know.” Jack shrugged. “Other reporters. Other players in the League.”

“Yeah? Name them.”