Fair enough.
But as we sat there—staring, sparring, the camera blinking quietly between us—I realized something that made my stomach tighten:
He wasn’t just good at this.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
And I wasn’t entirely sure which one of us was playing the game better.
I inhaled slowly. Reset.
One more question. Just one. I could do this without flipping a table.
“So let’s talk legacy,” I said, voice even but cool. “What do you want your final season to be remembered for?”
He leaned back in his chair, slow and unbothered, arms folding like he was settling in for a nap. His gaze met mine—cold, sharp, and just a little amused.
“You came in here expecting to break me down, Sommers,” he said. “Get your viral sound bite. Want me to cry about aging out? Maybe shed a single tear for the highlight reel?”
“No,” I snapped, before I could stop myself. “I expected you to act like a professional for once.”
His brow ticked up slightly.
“Right,” he said. “Because professionalism is definitely what you were aiming for when you called me a ‘defensive fossil with a god complex’ on national TV.”
“I was doing my job.”
He shrugged. “Funny. I don’t remember ‘cheap shots’ being part of your job description.”
I gritted my teeth. “I came in to talk about the team. The season. Not to spar with someone who thinks brooding counts as a personality trait.”
He smirked, but there was steel under it. “I’m not the one who started this with a punchline and a primetime mic.”
And that was when it slipped—sharp, and low and faster than I could stop it. “Maybe if you passed the ball as much as you dodge interviews,” I said, voice like cut glass, “you’d have a ring on your hand.”
Silence.
Then—
Kieren laughed.
A real laugh. Not a smirk or a snort, but a full, amused, chest-deep laugh like I’d just told the best joke of the year.
“Cute,” he said, wiping a nonexistent tear from his eye. “You think I give a shit.”
And that was it.
That was the exact moment I ran out of patience.
I snatched off my mic pack; the Velcro ripping like a battle cry. The intern behind the camera let out a little gasp as I stood, gathered my cue cards, then promptly tossed them in the trash next to the exit.
I grabbed my coffee cup from the table—still lukewarm, untouched—and pitched that in too for good measure.
I didn’t say goodbye.
Didn’t thank the crew.
Didn’t look at Kieren again.
