Page 11 of He Has Charm
“Why and how did you get involved in the sex video and how do you explain the explicit nature of it?”
Well fuck.
“Bad judgment for which I am extremely regretful.” I’d wish I had more to say, but I’m not a whiner or a finger pointer by nature, so even though I might confess in a private conversation the accidental circumstances and the names of the other people who might have set me up, I’m not about to get into it here. I glance at Harper and she nods with approval, which she sure as hell should because my remark is more stark and succinct than even she suggested.
“That’s it?”
I nod and look for the next question, taking over the finger-pointing from Ms. Delaney because she’s slow to respond. “Other questions?”
“How do you expect us to believe you’re serious about hockey after that video?”
“I don’t expect you to believe my words, but I intend to prove myself by my play on the ice and my behavior off the ice over the course of the season. All I can ask is a chance.” Murmurs follow this and I sense the mood changing and a lot of reporters crossing off half the questions on their lists.
“What sort of behavior off the ice?” one woman shouts out of turn, but the others quiet down, ceding the floor to her. “You going to dress up as a monk and take an oath of celibacy?” The laughs in the room are far from subdued. I have a few smart-ass quips for her, but I keep Harper and my promise to her at the top of my mind. So I take a page out of Bobby Orr’s self-deprecating style book.
“Not a bad idea,” I say. “Closer to my new reality than I’d like. But I’m committed to remain undistracted from my hockey goals, which are to contribute as much as possible to this team and win the Stanley Cup.” I pause, and when I should stop, I go on, deviating slightly from Harper’s advice to speak as little as possible. “Honestly, coming to Boston is a much needed and welcome new start for me and it’s a second chance I don’t intend to blow. It’s every hockey player’s dream to win the Stanley Cup from the minute they put on skates at four, five years old and I’m no different.
“Now I’m convinced I have a chance to make that dream a reality this season with this team. And I’m going to work my sorry butt off to make it happen.”
The questions about my indecent behavior ease up and after another ten minutes that seem like ten hours, the Delaney wraps up the questions and we leave through the same door we entered.
“That wasn’t terrible,” Delaney says. I grin at her because I know the PR lady’s reputation courtesy of Harper. So I know that was a massive compliment.
“You did great.” Harper beams at me and I wink. But Coach and the owners are reserved and do no more than nod and grunt.
“See you at morning skate, Knight. Seven thirty sharp,” Coach says and he peels off, disappearing down a hallway to the left. The owners head to the elevator and Harper takes my arm to guide me to the parking garage.
“Wait one second,” Delaney says. “Don’t forget tonight.” She eyes me like the cut of a knife, sharp and deep.
“We’ll be there,” Harper says. Delaney glances at her and nods, but doesn’t look reassured.
“Best behavior. No women,” Delaney says and turns on her heels, not waiting for any response. Harper loops her arm around mine and leads me to the street exit. The sidewalk bustles with energy in the refreshing cool air and the breeze ruffles my hair.
“Your hair is too long,” she says as she starts walking the short distance to our hotel in her sparkly sandals.
“I’d been scheduled for a cut today at my favorite NOLA barber. Which can be added to the tally of unfinished business along with my car, all my furniture, the rest of my clothes and my teammates.” I glance at her feet again as we walk. She’s slowed down considerably from earlier today. “You want to grab a cab or Uber?”
“No, I like walking. Even with these pitiful shoes. Losing your friends is the shittiest part of trades,” she says, nodding as we walk and I tip my Brawlers cap lower over my face. “I suppose you consider them friends?”
“They were all good friends. And to answer your unspoken question, even the teammates who threw me what’s turning out to be the worst birthday party ever that night, I still consider good friends.”
“Have you heard from them?” I’m not sure why she’s asking this line of questions, but an uncomfortable wave of emotion tightens my chest because this conversation is taking on the distinct aura of a certain emotional intimacy. The kind I never have with any female who’s not directly related to me.
“Yeah. Texts. Messages. Apologies. Oaths to stand by me as a decent guy no matter what anyone says.” I kick a stray soda can. Then I bend, pick it up and toss it into the trash as we walk by a receptacle.
“Good aim,” she says. “I’ll bet you haven’t responded to any of them, have you?” I stop and give her a look, probably confusion, and I don’t answer. She’s right, but I have no idea what to tell her. I can’t tell her about the searing shame and regret, it’s too raw. So I change the subject.
“What’s for dinner?”
* * *
Back at the hotel
“I’m glad that press conference is behind us,” she says as I let us into the room, carrying take-out from an Italian place we found on the way. Closing the door, I feel my first measure of real privacy and relief from the fishbowl pressure—except in Boston it’s more like aquarium-sized attention compared to NOLA.
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, adding my smirk to make sure she knows I’m kidding. She barks a laugh.
“Well,” Harper says, kicking her shoes off her feet immediately. “I really could use a drink after that. Too bad we’re on the wagon.” I snort.
