"Right, because personality is definitely the same as performance." I hear the edge in my voice and dial it back. "Look, the man once answered twelve questions with variations of 'we played hard.' He makes a brick wall look chatty. Granite has more charisma. But that doesn't make him a cancer—it makes him boring in post-game scrums."
Riley makes a thoughtful sound. "We've got a listener question on this, actually. Lee from Duluth asks: 'Is Torres actually a locker room problem, or is he just media-averse and we're conflating the two?'"
Lee from Duluth, asking the questions I don't want to answer.
"Right. Okay." I lean back in my chair, the springs creaking. "So here's the thing about media-averse guys. Some of them are just... they're not built for the performance part. Doesn't mean there's nothing there. It means—"
I catch myself. The words forming are too specific, too knowing. Too much.
"—it means I'm projecting my romance novel brain onto a guy who probably just really hates microphones. Moving on." I shuffle papers I don't need to shuffle. "What we do know is that the Mammoths got him for pennies on the dollar because Chicago was desperate to move on. Their loss, potentially our gain, assuming the vibes check out."
"You think they will?"
"I think—" I stop again. Pull the professional mask tighter. "I think we'll find out. That's literally why we have a podcast. Speaking of which—" I glance at my rundown, "—we should probably talk about the upcoming road trip and whether Kowalski's going to keep juggling the second line like a circus performer, but that's a topic for next week."
"Teasing content. Very professional of you."
"I learned from the best. That's all for today, degenerates. Keep your sticks on the ice and your DMs unhinged. Riley?"
"May your fantasy teams prosper and your exes' teams tank."
I punch the stop button. The red light flickers off.
Silence rushes in—not normal silence, but the dead, flat quiet of soundproofing foam and closed windows. I pull off my headphones and the pressure against my temples releases. My reflection stares back at me from the dark computer monitor: blonde ponytail gone messy, two sweaters, lipstick I put on three hours ago and mostly chewed off.
I exhale. Rub my face with both hands.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter to no one.
My phone buzzes. Riley.
RILEY: How much of that Torres take were you actually believing and how much was podcast voice?
I stare at the text. She always knows. Three years of co-hosting and she can hear the difference between me riffing and me... whatever that was.
BRYNN: All podcast voice. You know me. Drama for the content.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
RILEY: K. You good? You sound weird today.
I almost laugh. I sound weird because I just spent forty-five minutes talking about a man whose hoodie is currently shoved in my closet, behind dry-cleaning I will never pick up, and I've never told anyone why I still have it. Not Riley. Not even Sloane.
I told them both a version. That I met someone in Vegas. That it was intense. That I left before it got complicated.
I didn't tell them that I gave him a fake name. That I woke up at 4 AM with his arm heavy across my waist, looked at his face in the gray light, and felt so terrified of being seen that I slipped out before he could open his eyes.
I didn't tell them that for one night, I wasn't performing. Wasn't "on." Wasn't the clever one, the funny one, the one who fills silence because silence is where feelings live.
I was just... there. With him. And it scared me so much I ran.
BRYNN: I'm good. Long week. Talk tomorrow?
RILEY: You know where to find me. Same bat time, same bat channel.
BRYNN: Love you, weirdo.
RILEY: Love you too, disaster.
