Page 88 of Over the Line

“I’m not going to⁠—”

“Mmhmm, that’s what I thought.” Temo started putting on one of his elbow pads. “Yeah, I haven’t lost a step. The injury slowed me down for a while, but my knee is good as new now.”

Jack smiled that innocent smile he always did when he knew he was about to push the envelope. “Is it possible it’s something other than physical, then? There are rumors that you’ve had some personal difficulties that⁠—”

“Hey!” I stepped in between them and stabbed a finger at Jack. “How about you back off?”

“Whoa, hey!” He showed his palms. “I’m just asking questions about⁠—”

“Yeah, well, maybe leave our personal lives out of it? Especially right before a game?”

“I’m just ask⁠—”

“No. Absolutely not.” I stepped closer, looming over him in my skates. “If a player’s got something personal going on, that’s none of your damn business. And if he does have something personal going on that’s affecting his game, you don’t ask him about it before a game.” I glared harder and lowered my voice to a growl. “Not unless you want to sabotage the team.”

Before he could retort or I could rearrange his face, our team reporter stuck his arm between us and nudged Jack back a step.

“All right, all right. Let’s not.” Marcus inserted himself just like I’d gotten in between Jack and Temo. “Jack, let’s give the boys some room to get ready, all right?” Then he had his arm around Jack’s shoulders and was leading him away, rambling about plans for the postgame media scrum.

“Holy shit,” Chris whispered. “That guy has no shame, does he?”

“None at all,” I said through my teeth.

Temo touched my arm. “Thanks, man.”

“Don’t mention it.” I met his gaze. “You good?”

“Yeah.” He glared at Jack, then rolled his eyes and yanked his chest protector off its hanger. Then he muttered something in Nahuatl, and while I didn’t understand a word of his native language, I could tell by his tone that it wasn’t anything kind.

Couldn’t say I disagreed. My hackles went down minutely as Marcus took Jack out of the room. Hopefully he’d keep him busy until we were all on the ice. Or take him outside and push him into traffic. That would be fine, too.

“You boys good?” Travis, our PR director, appeared beside us, concern written all over his face.

“I’d be a hell of a lot better if that guy lost his press pass,” Temo snapped.

Travis sighed. “I’ll talk to him.”

Temo glared at him. I suspected it was the same look he gave one of his kids when they were on his last nerve.

Travis shifted nervously and looked at me. “Can I borrow you out in the hall?”

I gritted my teeth. “Warmups are in twenty minutes.”

“And I only need you for two.”

It took all I had not to roll my eyes. Had I been anyone but the captain, I probably would have. The need to set a good example kept my professional façade in place, and I just quietly followed Travis out into the hallway.

There were people out here. Mostly equipment managers and a few team and arena staff members. Still, we managed to find a corner with some relative privacy.

As soon as we were as alone as we were going to get, Travis gave another sigh and faced me. “Look, I know you don’t like him, Saints, and I don’t like his approach either. But the last thing we need is footage of you getting in a reporter’s face.”

“What about footage of that same reporter asking a player inappropriate questions?” I gestured back the way we’d come. “Before a game, no less, when we should be focused?”

Travis scowled and shifted his weight. He didn’t seem frustrated with me, per se, just the situation itself. As if he were trying to find a diplomatic solution that kept the press and the players happy.

“Why can’t we go back to the way things were a few seasons ago?” I asked. “When there was no press in the dressing room until after games?”

He eyed me. “You want to talk to the news sites that keep giving them tighter and tighter deadlines?”