He laughs and does it.
I step onto the marked spot. A reporter smiles brightly like she’s about to ask me my favorite color and then ruin my week.
“Captain Hayes,” she says, microphone angled up. “Are you drawn to the finalist? Would she be someone you’d ask out on your own?”
I keep my expression neutral. The answer is easy if I make it boring.
“She seems like a good person,” I say. “And this is for a good cause.”
“That’s very diplomatic,” the reporter says, eyebrows lifting. “Are you excited about the date?”
“I’m looking forward to supporting the charity,” I say.
“And is this outside your comfort zone?” another reporter asks from the side.
I don’t hesitate. “A little.”
That’s true, and it’s safe.
After games, I talk to the media all the time. I know that rhythm. This is different. Not because it’s harder. Because it’s… personal, but not in a way that fits the normal boxes.
“Did you feel like you had chemistry?” the first reporter pushes.
I glance at the PR rep, not because I need permission, but because it’s smart to acknowledge the boundaries.
“We had a good conversation,” I say. “That’s what tonight was about.”
The questions keep coming, quick and clipped.
“What did you like about her?”
“She listened.”
“What surprised you?”
“Her questions.”
“Was it hard to answer honestly knowing the crowd was there?”
I give the smallest smile. “I’m used to crowds.”
That gets a laugh, and it’s clean enough to clip without making me look like a jerk.
The whole time, I’m aware of something else.
Sloane.
Not onstage but offstage, somewhere in these same hallways, doing the same thing I’m doing now. Probably composed. Precise. Giving nothing away. Professional down to the bone.
It’s not just that she handled the spotlight. Plenty of people can do that.
It’s that she handled it like she’s been trained to survive it.
That consistency sticks.
The PR rep steps in after a final question. “That’s all for Captain Hayes, thank you. In three minutes, Mason and Gregory are up.”
I step back, and the lights feel less harsh immediately.
