Chapter 51 The Interview
CALEB
The first television interview happened on Tuesday.
Not local news or the small regional sports segments we had done during playoffs.
Actual national broadcast hockey coverage with studio lighting and makeup people and a host who kept calling me one of the breakout names of the season in a tone that suggested she had practiced the sentence beforehand.
I sat in the green room before the segment trying not to look visibly uncomfortable while a production assistant clipped a microphone onto my collar.
“You nervous?” she asked casually.
“No.”
She smiled immediately.
“So yes.”
Fair enough.
The station had flown me into Toronto that morning and the entire experience felt slightly unreal from the beginning. A driver holding my name at the station. Security badges. Producers moving quickly through hallways wearing headsets and speaking in abbreviations I did not understand.
Three months ago I was sleeping four hours a night worrying about injunction hearings.
Now someone was powdering my face under studio lights.
Life was absurd.
Porter had warned me already.
Be polite. Be calm. Do not try to sound impressive. Hockey interviews become dangerous when athletes start hearing themselves too much.
So I sat in the green room rehearsing absolutely nothing.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Mia.
National television today. Try not to develop an ego disorder.
Too late. I am already deeply famous.
Tragic.
You watching?
Mom turned it on forty minutes early.
That made me smile automatically.
Tell her I am emotionally terrified.
I will absolutely not tell her that.
Coward.
A stage manager appeared in the doorway.
“Five minutes, Caleb.”
I stood automatically.
Then sat back down again immediately because my legs suddenly felt heavier than they should.
Interesting.
Apparently I was nervous after all.
The host met me backstage before we went live.
Rebecca Langley.
Confident in the practiced effortless way television people always seemed confident.
“Relax,” she said immediately. “Nobody here bites.”
“That feels legally unverifiable.”
She laughed.
Good start.
The studio lights were hotter than expected once we sat down.
Everything looked polished and calm on camera but up close television sets felt mechanical somehow. Timed. Structured. Every movement controlled by someone counting silently somewhere off screen.
The countdown started.
Three.
Two.
One.
Then suddenly we were live.
“Joining us today is Hamilton Wolves captain Caleb Kessler fresh off a championship run that has scouts across the country paying attention.”
I smiled politely.
Not fake.
Just controlled.
Rebecca turned toward me.
“First championship question because legally I think I have to ask one. Have you slept since Saturday?”
“Questionable,” I admitted.
She laughed softly.
“Fair answer.”
The interview moved quickly after that.
Playoffs.
Halifax.
Pressure.
Leadership.
Standard hockey questions delivered in increasingly polished television language.
I answered carefully and honestly.
Then Rebecca glanced briefly toward a card in her lap.
“The story around your season has become bigger than hockey in some ways,” she said. “The article involving your family situation received a lot of attention nationally.”
There it was.
I kept my posture relaxed.
“Yes.”
“You spoke publicly against your father despite the potential consequences to your career. Looking back now, do you think that changed you as a player?”
Interesting question.
Not manipulative exactly.
But important.
I thought about it honestly before answering.
“I think it changed me as a person first,” I said finally. “The hockey followed after.”
Rebecca nodded slightly.
“How.”
I looked briefly toward the camera lights.
Then back at her.
“I spent a long time thinking pressure and control were the same thing,” I admitted. “And they are not. One makes you sharper. The other makes you smaller.”
The studio stayed very quiet around us for half a second.
Rebecca leaned forward slightly.
“And what taught you the difference?”
Mia.
Obviously Mia.
The equipment room.
The contract.
Every same time tomorrow after that.
But some things still belonged to us before they belonged to television.
So I smiled slightly instead.
“Good people,” I said simply.
Rebecca studied me for a second like she understood there was more underneath the answer.
Then she smiled too.
“Well. Whoever those good people are, the results seem difficult to argue with.”
The segment ended three minutes later.
Applause from the crew.
Microphone removed.
Lights cooling.
And suddenly the adrenaline disappeared all at once leaving me exhausted.
Rebecca touched my arm briefly before leaving the set.
“You interview well,” she said.
“That feels surprising.”
“You would be amazed how many athletes treat basic human conversation like a hostage situation.”
I laughed quietly.
Backstage, Porter called almost immediately.
“You survived,” he said.
“Barely.”
“You sounded normal. That already puts you ahead of half the league.”
High praise from Porter honestly.
He paused briefly.
“You also handled the family question correctly.”
“I did not say much.”
“Exactly.”
That part mattered too.
People wanted stories once attention arrived.
They wanted pain packaged cleanly enough to consume comfortably.
I had no interest in turning my life into entertainment for strangers.
After the call ended I headed back toward the train station carrying the suit bag over my shoulder and finally checked my messages properly.
Thirty two unread texts.
Most from teammates.
Eli’s simply said:
YOU LOOKED LIKE AN ADULT. TERRIFYING.
Walter’s said:
Excellent posture. Your grandfatherly review remains positive.
Mom says your hair looked too long.
I laughed out loud standing in the middle of the station.
Then Mia’s message appeared underneath the others.
You did good.
Just that.
Simple.
But somehow it settled heavier than all the others combined.
I called her while boarding the train home.
She answered immediately.
“Well,” she said. “National television.”
“Apparently.”
“You looked calm.”
“I was actively dying.”
“That is called professionalism.”
I smiled and leaned back into the train seat.
“How is your day.”
“Scholarship paperwork. Jamie forgot his lunch again. Mom yelled at daytime television for thirty minutes.”
“About what.”
“I genuinely do not know.”
Fair.
The train started moving.
Outside Toronto blurred slowly into gray winter buildings and dirty snowbanks.
“Mia.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever feel like things are changing faster than your brain can catch up to.”
A pause.
“Constantly,” she admitted quietly.
I looked out the window.
“Today felt weird,” I said. “Not bad weird. Just…” I searched briefly. “Like people are starting to look at me differently.”
“They are.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is not ominous,” she said gently. “Just true.”
I rubbed a hand slowly across my jaw.
“I do not want to become one of those people.”
“What people.”
“The ones who start believing their own press.”
She laughed softly.
“I promise I would bully you immediately if that happened.”
“That is reassuring.”
“I take my responsibilities seriously.”
The train rocked gently beneath us.
Comfortable silence settled for a second.
Then:
“When do you get back?” she asked.
“Hour and a half maybe.”
“Come over for dinner.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“What are we having?”
“Mom attempted lasagna.”
“Attempted?”
“She says it is structurally unstable.”
I laughed quietly again.
God.
Just hearing her voice after all the television noise felt like exhaling properly for the first time all day.
“I will be there,” I said.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asked lightly.
The familiar words settled warmly in my chest immediately.
“Same time tomorrow,” I said.