“Satisfied?”
I cleared my throat, and found something far more interesting in a loose thread on the open garment bag. “It’ll have to do. I’m fine– I mean, it’s fine. You should finish up. We have to get back to the arena.”
*
The arena was already humming when we arrived. Reporters lined the barriers, cameras slung over shoulders, microphones poised. I straightened my blazer, checked my notes, and gestured for Hunter to follow.
He did, long strides eating up the concrete. For a guy who hated the spotlight, he walked like he owned it. The suit helped. So did theway heads turned as he passed.
We slipped through the security doors and into the staging area. Coach McAvoy was waiting, flanked by Grayson. Both looked like they’d stepped out of a commercial for Midwestern grit, all square jaws, pressed suits, and the kind of smiles that said they’d seen every kind of player come and go.
“Looking sharp, Callahan,” McAvoy said, shaking Hunter’s hand. “You ready?”
Hunter nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”
“Man, am I glad there’ll be photos of this,” Grayson said. “You in a suit? You’re killing it.”
I hovered at Hunter’s elbow and murmured. “By the way, you don’t have to bother with the whole ‘Trey’ avoidance. It’s handled.”
He frowned at me, and was about to ask something when a staffer came around, and said, “We’re set.”
McAvoy clapped Hunter on the back. “Let’s do this.”
The press room had been transformed into a stage. Team banners hung behind a podium, a long table set with microphones, and rows of folding chairs filled with reporters. Camera flashes popped as soon as Hunter stepped out with the coach and Grayson. I stayed off to the side, watching it all unfold.
McAvoy took the mic first, launching into a practiced speech about legacy and leadership. “It’s my pleasure to officially welcome Hunter Callahan as the new starting goalkeeper for the Surge,” he said, voice ringing with authority. “We’re mighty thrilled to have him in our net.”
Applause. Flashes. Hunter stood still, hands clasped loosely in front of him, the picture of composure. I could see the pulse beating at his throat from where I stood, but his face didn’t give it away. Good.
Then Grayson stepped forward, grinning wide. “This is a special moment for our team, and we wanted to do something a little different. We asked a former teammate to join us today and present Hunter with his jersey.”
The crowd murmured, and Hunter shot a confused look my way. I should’ve told him, but that would’ve ruined the surprise.
A door at the back opened, and Trey walked in.
The room erupted. Shouts, flashes, the scrape of chairs as reporters leaned forward. Trey, the team’s ex-goalie, still golden in the public eye despite his messy exit, strode up to the stage with a jersey in his hands.
My heart pounded. This was either going to be a disaster or a PR coup.
Trey shook McAvoy’s hand, then Grayson’s, then turned to Hunter. For a beat, neither said anything. Then Trey smiled and held out the jersey. Number one, bold and gleaming.
Hunter’s surprise was subtle, just a flicker in his eyes, but he accepted the jersey without hesitation. They shook hands, and hugged it out. Flashes went off like fireworks.
“This is the future of the Surge,” Trey said into the mic, voice smooth. “I’m sorry for how I left, but take nothing away from this amazing team. I’m super proud to hand over this jersey to Hunter Callahan.”
It was perfect. Better than perfect. My throat went tight with relief. This was the photo every paper and sports blog in the country would run tomorrow. The narrative had shifted in one clean move. We weren’t a team in crisis anymore. We were a team passing the torch.
Hunter held up the jersey, camera flashes strobing across his face. “It’s an honor to wear the number one jersey,” he said, his words filled with heart. “I’m focused on being part of my team’s success.”
His voice was steady. Confident. Like he meant it.
I exhaled a slow sigh of relief. Good boy.
After the ceremony, the team spilled into the hallway to meet him, the mood light and celebratory.
“We’re heading out. Drinks on Theo,” Mason said, clapping Hunter on the back.
Hunter was unbuttoning his jacket, rolling his shoulders like he’d been holding tension for hours.
