The press are all in place now. Rows of them, notepads poised, cameras lined up. Calam’s manning his rig behind a tripod, eye squinting through the viewfinder. Mikey’s already recording.
Cassy shoots me a look from near the edge of the stage, the unspoken message loud and clear: Get up there. NOW.
Okay. Here goes.
I walk to the podium. The second I step behind it, cameras start flashing like a lightning storm. The noise dies instantly. You could hear a pin drop.
And weirdly, what I feel isn’t fear. It’s not nerves. It’s the same thing I feel right before a game. That low burn in my gut. Fire.
I look down at the statement on the paper. The words feel flat, forced. Not me.
Oh, fuck it.
I don’t look at the page again. I start talking. “My name’s Blake Mitchell.” My voice is rough at first. A little shaky. But I keep going, and it evens out. Clears. Strengthens, and I speak from my heart.
“I’ve played for the Aces for a long time. This team’s my family. My brothers. And this week, we lost one of the best men I’ve everknown. Thomas Keegan. You knew him as Thumper. We knew him as heart, grit, and the guy who never once gave up, even when he had every reason to.”
I look out over the room. Every single face is locked on me.
“I miss him. We all do. There’s no pre-written statement that can wrap up what he meant to us. But I’ll say this, every time I lace up, every time I step onto that ice, I’ll be carrying him with me. We all will. Because Thumper wasn’t just a teammate. He was the Aces.”
A few camera flashes go off.
“I’ve been given the responsibility to wear the C. And I don’t take that lightly. I’m not here to be perfect. I’m here to be accountable. To lead by example. To fight for every shift, every play, every single guy on this team. Because that’s what a captain does. That’s what he did.”
I glance sideways. Cassy’s staring at me. Mouth open. Unmoving.
I finish strong. “We’re not just playing for wins this season. We’re playing for him. For his legacy. And for the city that stands behind us.”
Silence.
Then—
“Blake, over here, do you think the team’s ready to fill the void Keegan left?”
“Blake, what’s your response to critics who say you’re too aggressive to lead?”
“Blake, are you planning to adjust your playing style now that you’re captain?”
The questions fly.
But all I can think is, finally. I feel like a captain.
Once the press conference ends, it's full throttle for the rest of the day. Back-to-back drills, weight training, scrimmages so aggressive I can feel bruises blooming under my pads, and a two-hour strategy meeting that feels more like military planning than hockey.
We’re facing the Edmonton Avalanches this weekend at home, and nobody wants to get flattened on our ice.
And now? I’ve spent the better part of an hour and a half in Cassy’s office, desperately trying to be focused while we go over the media department's plan for their upcoming youth mental health campaign.
Except I’m not focused. Not even close.
Because Cassy, still bossy, still smug, still talking to me like I’m a particularly slow intern, is acting weird. Different.
It’s not obvious, but I catch her glancing at me when she thinks I’m not looking. There’s this...shift. Something tight behind her usual razor-sharp tone.
And then there’s the other thing. That night. It won’t leave me alone. Not in my head. Not in my blood.
The way her mouth curved when she moaned my name. The sight of her perfect naked body as we made love.
