Off the Ice

There are exactly three hundred and forty-two acoustic tiles on the ceiling of Arthur Pendelton’s office. I know this because I have counted them four times. "Jaxson," Arthur says. His voice has reached that specific, vibrating pitch that usually precedes a cardiovascular event. "Are you even listening to me?" "I am," I lie smoothly, shifting my gaze from tile number three-hundred-and-forty-two down to my left hand. My knuckles are a spectacular shade of deep eggplant purple. They throb with a rhythmic, stupid beat that perfectly matches the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Honestly, the structural integrity of a paparazzi drone-camera is surprisingly robust. It takes a significant amount of kinetic force to shatter one, a scientific fact my right hook had successfully proven in a public parking lot last night. "The board is losing their minds," Arthur groans, rubbing his temples. As the General Manager of the Chicago Blizzard, Arthur’s entire existence is dedicated to two things: winning the Stanley Cup and keeping twenty-five testosterone-fueled athletes from committing felonies. Right now, I am severely complicating his life metrics. "The NHL commissioner called me at six AM, Jaxson. Six. AM. Do you know what he said?" "That he loves my defensive stats this season?" I suggest. It’s a reasonable hypothesis. I’m currently leading the league in blocked shots and +/- ratings. Arthur slams a thick manila folder onto his sleek mahogany desk. "He said you are a PR radioactive hazard! Look at this!" He flips the folder open, scattering printouts of morning tabloids across the desk. There I am, captured in high-definition, grainy glory. The headlines are an absolute masterclass in sensationalist vocabulary: THE ICE KING MELTS DOWN! VANCE’S VIOLENT VENDETTA: IS THE BLIZZARD’S STAR DEFENSEMAN A LIABILITY? FROM HOCKEY HERO TO HOCKEY HOOLIGAN. The main photo shows me with my jaw clamped tight, my arm raised, looking like a feral caveman about to pummel a defenseless man in a trench coat. What the frame conveniently cuts out is the fact that the man in the trench coat had spent the last twenty minutes shoving a massive telephoto lens literally three inches away from the face of my teammate’s eight-year-old sister, who was sobbing her eyes out. It also cuts out the part where I politely asked him to back off twice before executing my tactical intervention. But of course, the media doesn't care about the physics of cause and effect. They care about clicks. "I was protecting a kid, Arthur," I say, my voice dropping into that flat, gravelly register that my teammates call my murder-tone. "The guy was harassing Leo’s sister. He wouldn't back off." "I know that! You know that!" Arthur throws his hands up in the air, a gesture of pure theatrical despair. "But the public sees a six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound professional athlete assaulting a member of the press. Sportswear brands are threatening to pull their sponsorships by midnight. The parent company that owns our stadium is talking about a morals clause violation. They want to bench you, Jaxson. For the entire season. Suspended without pay." A cold, heavy knot forms in the pit of my stomach. Hockey isn't just my job. It’s not just a multi-million dollar contract. It is the literal axis upon which my entire psychological stability rotates. I don't do charity galas, I don't do witty banter on Twitter, and I don't do casual social interactions. I skate, I hit things, and I win games. If you remove hockey from my personal equation, I am essentially just a very large, incredibly grumpy man who spends too much time staring at walls. "They can't bench me," I say, and for the first time today, the snark is completely gone from my voice. "The playoffs are in three months. The team needs my line." "Which is the only reason I haven't personally thrown you into the Chicago River," Arthur sighs, sinking back into his leather chair. He looks older than his fifty years, his hairline seemingly retreating in real-time. "I managed to negotiate a compromise with the league and the network executives. But you’re not going to like it." I narrow my eyes. In my experience, when corporate executives use the word compromise, it usually involves a significant amount of public humiliation for me. "What is it?" Arthur slides a fresh, neatly bound document across the desk. The cover page features a glossy logo of a major television network. "An all-access, raw, behind-the-scenes documentary," Arthur announces, trying to inject an upbeat, marketing-approved enthusiasm into his tone. It fails miserably. "A redemption arc, broadcasted in prime-time. They want to follow you around for the next few weeks. Show the world the real Jaxson Vance. The dedicated athlete. The disciplined professional. The guy who isn't a mindless thug." My brain goes completely blank for a full three seconds as my survival instincts scream in terror. "No," I say instantly. "Absolutely not. Throw me in a penalty box for ten games. Fine me half my salary. But I am not letting a bunch of blood-sucking media parasites into my space with cameras." "Jaxson, you don't understand the gravity of the situation," Arthur says, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet seriousness. "This isn't an invitation. It’s an ultimatum. The network has already assigned a production team. They start tomorrow. You will open your home, you will open your practice sessions, and you will sit down for exclusive, deeply personal interviews." "And if I refuse?" Arthur looks at me with genuine pity. "If you refuse, the Blizzard will formally execute the behavioral misconduct clause in your contract. You will be suspended indefinitely. Your agent won't be able to save you. You’ll be a pariah, Jaxson. Your career in the NHL will be effectively over." The silence that follows is suffocating. I can hear the distant hum of the ice resurfacing machine down in the rink below us. My sanctuary. The one place where the rules make sense—where if someone crosses a line, you drop the gloves, deal with it, and move on. Now, I am being forced to hand over the keys to that sanctuary to the exact group of people I despise most. Journalists. People who twist words for a living, who manufacture drama out of thin air, who look at a human being and see nothing but content. "Who is it?" I grind out, my jaw aching from how hard I’m clenching it. "Who is the journalist?" Arthur reaches into the folder and pulls out a single sheet of paper—a bio page. "Her name is Rowan Miller. She’s one of the network's rising stars. They chose her specifically because her interview style is... well, the report says she has a 'highly disarming, warm, and empathetic screen presence.'" I snort, a sound of pure, cynical amusement. "So they’re sending a professional sunshine-factory to try and humanize the monster. Great. Fantastic." "She’s highly professional, Jaxson. And she’s your only lifeline," Arthur says, tapping his desk for emphasis. "She arrives at your penthouse tomorrow morning at nine AM with a skeleton crew. You will be polite. You will be cooperative. And help me God, if you use that monotone, one-word-answer routine you do during post-game press conferences, I will personally trade you to a minor league team in Alaska. Do you understand me?" I stare at the bio sheet on the desk. There’s a small headshot of Rowan Miller in the corner. She’s smiling—a bright, blindingly cheerful smile that looks completely incompatible with the brutal, cynical reality of my world. She has large, expressive eyes and the kind of radiant energy that practically screams I wake up at five AM to do yoga and drink green smoothies. She looks like the kind of person who would try to organize my hockey sticks by color. I already hate her. "Fine," I spit out, standing up so fast my office chair rolls backward into the wall. "I’ll do her stupid little show. But the moment the league clears my suspension status, the cameras are gone." "Nine AM tomorrow, Vance," Arthur calls out as I march toward the door. "Wear something that doesn't make you look like a mob enforcer!" I don't answer. I slam the office door behind me, the vibration rattling the acoustic tiles above. As I walk down the concrete corridor toward the locker room, my purple knuckles throbbing in sync with my escalating blood pressure, I make a silent vow. Rowan Miller might have the entire backing of a national television network, and she might have a smile that could melt glaciers, but she has no idea what she’s walking into. She wants a raw, unfiltered look at the Ice King? I’ll give her exactly what she wants. And by day two, she’ll be begging her bosses to send her back to whatever fluffy, daylight-filled universe she crawled out of.