Icing the Puck (New York Empires Book 2) (18 page)

He nodded. He knew. That was the interview he was really nervous about.

The major network covering hockey that season had sent their famous sideline reporter, Clint Beauchamp, to see the commercial and to interview the hockey players involved. Max’s interview was going to be part of the features aired during the network’s coverage of the Winter Classic.

“Now remember,” Emily said. “Beauchamp is…dangerous.”

Dangerous was an understatement. Max knew the rumors, and once he’d been called up to the Empires, he was told the rumors were true. Clint Beauchamp, a former coach turned beloved (by the fans) sideline reporter, had a reputation. He was known for deceptively calm interviews that lead into questions designed to trip up even the most prepared player.

“I know your history,” Emily began.

He nodded. His history of linguistic screw-ups during all sorts of public situations was rather legendary around the AHL, especially in Stratford where he’d spent a year playing for the Empire’s affiliate.

He watched Emily look around, making sure they were alone. “Beauchamp is going to exploit it,” she said softly. “He’s got a vendetta against…the league, the teams, who knows? He likes to prove that his players were the best prepared for interviews, and he is ruthless.”

He swallowed, took a deep breath, and then reached up and ran his index finger and his thumb around the collar of his dress shirt, adjusting it without the benefit of a mirror. It was something he could focus on without showing Emily he was also scared out of his fucking mind.

“St. Laurent?”

“You’re up,” Emily whispered unnecessarily.

Max smiled back at her and made a quick gesture searching for approval.

Emily nodded.

“Last minute pointers?” he asked.

“Just watch yourself with this guy,” she replied after a moment. “The infamous tricky question will come out of nowhere, and you have to be prepared for it.”

Max nodded in return, though he wasn’t quite sure how the word deceptive actually applied. But he felt Emily’s sincerity and headed toward the podium set up for the national network.

“Nice to meet you,” the bald-headed gentleman said in a bit of a raspy voice, taking his hand.

“Same,” he replied, smiling.

And the conversation began. Beauchamp was from Montreal and knew about Max’s years in Juniors. They spoke about the fact he played both offense and defense, how much he enjoyed being in New York, and how Brooklyn reminded him of Montreal—the city he’d spent most of his life outside of.

“So how did you get the nickname Lucky Seven?”

Thank god.

Max started to laugh as he remembered the incident and thought about the words he’d use to tell the story in the easiest way possible.

“I don’t know; it was something that happened along with the jersey, you know? I wear…I am number seven, and I scored…the first time on the ice in Brooklyn, and they thought ‘number seven…lucky.’”

The interviewer’s genuine laugh made him feel relief. “Very lucky you’re the only rookie in this group, barely got your peach fuzz off your skates.”

Right. Rookie. Peach fuzz?

Tabernac.

“Well, you know…you get your moment when you can, and maybe take your chances and do…what you can to be part of the team and of the sport, and do your best.”

“Already sounding like a pro at this.”

If he thinks I’m a pro already…

“So what’s this about?”

Simple. To the point. Quick. Easy.

“Well, this is a campaign of athletes who play for New York teams who are from other countries. We…were being sports ambassadors to New York. Showing the city has the flavor of so many countries. And my segment was me saying…welcome to New York in French, so you know, that’s ‘
Bienvenue à New York
.’” He shrugged. Smiled. “It was a good thing for New York, a good thing for Les Empires and a good thing for hockey….to be made part of this.”

“What’s it like? Being around other New York athletes?”

Easy question. Easy answer. Simple. Simple
. “It’s great, of course. It’s wonderful to see the love they have for the city and their sports, and how they make…parts of their countries live…in New York. It’s like…”

“Halloween? Frankenstein?” Beauchamp laughed, but his smile wasn’t friendly. And in the back of his mind, Max could feel Beauchamp’s emotions start to gather.

He could work with gathering emotions and an out, courtesy of Alain. “Possibly,” he answered, laughing himself. “My uncle, you know, he told me about how much this city loves to celebrate the holidays…Halloween…you know with the parade in Greenwich Village and the excitement. And the parades of Thanksgiving…”

“Yeah, New York knows how to celebrate. What do you think of…”

And suddenly Beauchamp’s emotions exploded…like a thunderbolt or a volcano or…a bomb. All he could feel was the pounding headache produced by his
percée
in response to Beauchamp’s anger and jealousy. There was so much of it…and focused right on him in a way that made him think it was deliberate.

He took a breath instead of grunting in pain, carefully brushed his eyes with his fingertips and blinked. “Erm…I what did you?”

Beauchamp laughed, anger and jealousy turning to satisfaction. Satisfaction he could handle. “So,” Beauchamp said, “what do you think of New York weather?”

Max answered the question, but from the horrified expression on Emily’s face, and the smile on Beauchamp’s, he knew the damage had been done.

Merde.

Kayleigh

There were two huge folders of “Winter Classic and related events” music, and Kayleigh swore she’d played every piece of music in them twice. Including
three
different arrangements of Vivaldi’s
Summer
that the Plugged ensemble was testing. Her fingers desperately needed a massage, but she was too tired to walk down the block to her favorite little massage place.

Instead, when she got back from practice, she collapsed on her couch and called it a day. She was contemplating ordering dinner when the phone rang. The caller ID said “Sousa,” and she always picked up the phone when her best and oldest friend called.

“‘Lo?”

“Turn on the TV.”

There was an urgency in her friend’s voice, and she wasn’t sure why. “What?”

Sousa sighed on the other end of the phone. “It’s about to get interesting. Turn on the TV.”

“Good interesting or bad interesting?” she wondered aloud.

“You, my friend, need to judge that one for yourself.”

Kayleigh nodded, even though she knew her friend couldn’t see. “Sure then…”

Then she held the phone between her ear and her shoulder and carefully, sadly, got up from the most comfortable couch she’d ever owned. Then, following some instructions a friend of a friend once had given, she stretched her arms, then her legs. Sufficiently stretched, she crossed the living room and grabbed the remote.

Remote in hand, she walked to the couch, flopped back down and pressed the on button. The TV flared to life, lighting up the half-darkened room to the point where Kayleigh needed to cover her eyes. “Ouch,” she said.

“Did I wake you?” Sousa asked.

“Nah. Long practice, came home, collapsed on the couch and forgot to turn on the light. So what channel am I watching?”

“Four.”

She turned to one of the major networks and waited.

“In other news earlier this evening, athletes from all of New York City’s major sports teams gathered together for the premier of an advertisement that showcases the international flavor this city has to offer.”

She sat back and watched the Swedish goalie for one of the other New York hockey teams, the Dominican outfielder from the baseball team from Queens, and the Japanese right fielder from the Bronx baseball team all talk about their sports.”

“Here we go,” Sousa said. “This is it…”

“Defenseman Max St. Laurent from the New York Empires had this to say…”

As they switched to the footage of Max’s interview, her heart started to race. His responses were slow and clear, which boded well for him. He was also adorable. And then…what?

As the silence extended, she wanted to smack the usually annoying journalist with her shoe. Finally, she watched as the adorable Frenchman realized he’d been asked a question, then managed gamely to answer it.

“Oh, boy,” she said.

“Oh, boy is right,” Sousa replied. “I take it you two have been emailing?”

“Yeah,” she said. “There was some kind of emailing and he emailed me back but I hadn’t….”

“So what are you going to do now? After you’ve seen your adorable Frenchman on TV?”

“Send him an email?”

“Do it now,” Sousa ordered. “He needs it. Bye.” And with that, her friend ended the call, leaving her to send a very important email.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

I saw you on TV. You’re still awesome.

K

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Relieved to hear that, thanks. Not feeling so awesome (?) now.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

You are. You held your head high and you were wonderful. And making an effort.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Merci

Max

Tabernac.

The entire team had heard the interview. He’d had enough of the snickers, the weather maps, the silly puzzle, and the stuffed squeaky sun.

Merde.

He smiled, despite his embarrassment. Especially since he could feel the genuine horror from his teammates. They were laughing with him, embarrassed for him. And in a few isolated cases, proud of him. “OK, thank you,” he said, bowing. “Really. I am touched that all of you spent your off time watching me on television.”

Even his defense partner grinned and presented him with a French-English meteorological dictionary. He shook his head, grinned back, and put the heavy tome away before settling down into the usual rhythm of practice. But practice itself was in no way usual. It was hard, fast, and it felt as if the world was doing its best to keep his brain in the game, and not on last night’s moment of idiocy. He had to focus on the ice, the puck and the game. And work. Hard.

As per usual, the entire team worked, too; the forwards, the wings, the centers, and the defensemen. Puck handling and stick handling first, then passing drills. He even got a few moments on one of the power play practice groups, then his penalty kill unit got about five seconds. By the time he got in front of the net, Semenov didn’t even break a sweat as he turned away his feeble attempt at a shot. Only a cretin would shoot with his hands in the defensive stick position.

Coach MacArthur was pleased with the team’s efforts on the ice. Max didn’t need
percée
to see it, but he felt it nonetheless. There was also something else; a worry behind the pride. And worry from his coach made his stomach turn.

“Great practice, guys,” Coach Mac boomed. “Back here tomorrow for video. Also the two power play units need to come early. We need to drill this thing into submission.” And then he turned to Max. “St. Laurent? I need to see you. In my office. Ten minutes.”

The team broke up and headed toward the locker room. Of all people, Emerson clapped him on the shoulder. “Careful, buddy,” he said, his tone joking, his fear just below the surface. “Just be careful.”

Max nodded at the captain, taking the man’s sage advice at face value.
Merde
. He was in for it. But all he could say was, “Yes. Absolutely. I will.”

He headed into the locker room, grabbed his things, and took the quickest shower he’d ever taken. As he dried himself off and got dressed, he tried to figure out what he might be confronting, and did his darnedest to calm his raging mind.

He found himself focusing on the fact his coach was not angry. The man was frustrated. Proud and he felt a tinge of exasperation. That meant a couple things, he decided as he grabbed his bag and headed toward his coach’s office. But in the end, the most important thing was to make sure his coach realized how serious he was. He was working hard, and would continue to do so. The opportunity he’d been given meant a great deal to him, and he’d do whatever it took to stick as a pro.

Resolved, settled, he knocked on the door.

“St. Laurent?”

“
Ouais, Chef
,” he began without thinking.

Merde.

English. “Yes, Coach MacArthur.”

“C’mon in. It’s open.”

He nodded, took a deep breath and tried to see past his own fear. Frustration and worry and urgency from his coach. As he shut the door, he took another deep, cleansing breath before turning to his coach.
Keep it simple. Slowly. Slowly.
“I…”

But his coach shook his head, gesturing him to a seat in front of his desk instead. All he could feel was sadness. “I don’t want to hear one word out of you. Not one.”

He was silent as he sat down, focusing on Coach MacArthur’s face.

Now it was his coach’s turn to sigh, and he found himself overwhelmed by the disappointment rolling off of the other man.

“You did great during your segment of the commercial,” Coach Mac began, a bit of pride in his voice. “Wonderful. You also represented your team well in most of the interviews you did during the press thing. That tells me you’re making a genuine effort. You mean it. But these flub ups, these mess-ups of yours. They’re…”

“But…”

“Not one word, St. Laurent. I mean it. You need to
listen
. I cannot tell you how important it is to me personally that you’re making the effort to learn English. Whatever that effort is, it shows.”

Max wondered how the coach would react if the man understood how little he was actually speaking English outside of practice and scattered emails…

“And nobody likes that reporter anyway. But he messed you up. And if he can, then any reporter worth their salt can. Which means you’re not fluent enough. And here’s the thing. The Classic. Obviously it matters in the standings, but it matters for the league’s publicity. It matters for the team. If they mess you up there, again? It’s not just you who’s messed up, it’s the team. Because it will be everywhere.”