Page 5 of Poetry On Ice
I keep my eyes straight ahead and increase my pace.
“Decker.” A smooth, baritone voice finds me from behind. “Wait up.”
Oh, Jesus Christ. Please no.
Please do not tell me Golden Boy wants to hug it out and talk about his feelings.
It’s McGuire, so of course he does. His hair is damp and swept back off his face, light-brown with fine blond highlights, and he’s wearing a white puffer jacket that makes his skin look more tan than it is. He has a hand in one pocket and his brows raised in high, hopeful arcs.
It’s that, the hope, that gets under my skin.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I thought maybe we should talk…grab a beer or something, you know, just kind of try to clear the air.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
He’s very taken aback. He’s not used to people not falling over themselves the second they encounter his charm. His eyes widen. This close, I can see fine striations of fern and moss green fanning out against a golden-brown backdrop.
His eyes are hazel, not green.
I forgot about that.
He shows me the palms of his hands. A gesture that’s meant to set me at ease but does the exact opposite. “I’m not, uh, back there, what happened on the ice… I’m not that guy.”
“Really?” I quirk my lips. “Too bad, ’cause I am.”
His head whips back and he blinks in indignation. His lips pinch into such a small, tightOthat they look like an asshole. One that’s clenching.
I’m about to tell him so when we’re accosted by the reporters. One is holding a recorder in our direction.
“Robbie, do you have anything to say about being traded to the Vipers?”
“Nah.” McGuire unleashes a thousand-watt smile. “That was a decision made by people who know a lot more about management and strategy than I do. I’m just here to play hockey.”I’m just here to play hockey? Seriously?“And I’m stoked to be playing for Seattle. The Vipers have been my team since I was a kid. For me, this is a dream in the making.”A dream in the making?
Someone needs to stop him.
His agent, that’s who. He needs to get down here stat and put a muzzle on this guy before the entire city finds themselves watching this shit on the news.
“Now,” says the reporter, looking so pleased with himself I’d bet you ten dollars I know what he’s going to say next, “much has been made about the rivalry between the two of you. Do you care to make a comment about that?”
Bingo. There it is.
McGuire doesn’t skip a beat. “As I’ve always said, Ant Decker is a player I have a lot of respect for. Our rivalry is fictitious and has been totally blown out of proportion over the years. It’s a case of quotes being taken out of context and used as clickbait, nothing more.”
The reporter turns his recorder to me. “And how do you feel about the latest addition to the Vipers?”
I tilt my head down so I’m speaking straight into the recorder. “It fucking sucks fucking balls.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the second reporter line up his camera. I turn microscopically and arrange my face into as much of a smile as I can muster. The bulb of the flash goes off with apopthat momentarily blinds me. With that, I thank the reporters for their time, unlock my car, get in, and drive off.
The photograph makes headlines in under two hours. It’s posted online and is picked up by TBS and TNT. Obviously, they can’t use my quote because of my language—and that’s no accident, by the way—but theyreplay McGuire’s over and over, cutting straight to the photograph of us each time.
Now, I’m not what one would call artistically minded. I can’t usually tell a masterpiece from my ass, but even I know this photograph is good. It’s really good. The lighting, the angle, the drama—impressive. I don’t often take a good picture because of my face and, well, my entire personality being what it is, but in this case, I look pretty damn good. I’m looking straight at the camera, my eyes are open—both of them—and I’m smiling. I don’t look violent or even a little angry.
Hmm. Maybe I should send a copy to Stacey. She might get a kick out of it.
There’s no such luck for McGuire. His face is twisted like it was right before he punched me on the ice, but worse. He’s looking up at me, nostrils flared, eyes filled with something people are universally programmed to recognize anywhere; venom.