I was primed and loaded.
“And now,” the host said, turning to me with a grin, “we’re joined by Daphne Sommers, who somehow manages to keep the league honest and fashionable. Good morning, Daph.”
“Morning,” I replied, tone sweet enough to rot teeth. “Glad to be here.”
“Let’s get into it.” He chuckled, flipping his own notes. “Any bold predictions for this season?”
He asked it like a joke. Lighthearted. Casual.
I didn’t blink.
“Sure,” I said, tilting my head just slightly. “That Kieren Walker will retire before passing the ball.”
The laugh that burst from the crew behind the camera was immediate and loud. I caught the makeup artist nearly choke on her drink.
I just smiled.
The host gave a mock gasp. “Ouch! Harsh words for West Michigan’s finest.”
“Please,” I said, waving a hand. “He’s got all the finesse of a rampaging bull and the humility of a Bond villain. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” He was grinning now. “All right then—what are your thoughts on the Storm’s title chances this year?”
I smirked, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be dramatic.
“They’ll do fine,” I said. “You know, once their defensive fossil gets over his god complex.”
Another ripple of laughter. Someone behind the camera actually snorted. The host clutched his chest like I’d physically wounded him.
“Wow. You’ve been saving that one, huh?”
“Like a bottle of top-shelf whiskey,” I replied smoothly. “Only with a longer shelf life than Kieren Walker’s last press conference.”
I saw the red light on the camera blink off as the segment cut to commercial, but the host was still laughing.
“Okay, okay,” the host chuckled, smoothing his notes. “Let’s shift gears before Walker storms in here with a cease and desist. Who should fans be watching this season?”
I lifted my coffee cup like it was a crystal ball. “There’s a lot of fresh talent this year. I’d keep an eye on Alejandro Cruz—kid’s got gold in his feet and ice in his veins. Also, Brody Reid is finally getting the midfield minutes he deserves.”
“Solid picks,” the host agreed, nodding. “But I know our viewers are going to ask—any final thoughts on Walker?”
I gave him a look over the rim of my cup. “You sure you want another sound bite?”
“I mean… we’re already in the deep end.”
“All right,” I said, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “He’s the most overrated player in the league and possibly the grumpiest. I’m just waiting for him to throw hands during a post-game interview.”
There was a beat of stunned silence—then a bark of laughter from the audio tech off-screen.
I didn’t flinch. Just smiled and took another sip of lukewarm coffee like I hadn’t just lobbed a grenade at the West Michigan Storm’s golden boy.
The host gave an exaggerated wince. “Again… I would never want to go toe to toe with you.”
“You’ll never have to. Only if you start calling yourself ‘a god among men’ in third person.”
The screen froze on my smile mid-sip, coffee halfway to my lips. A cheerful jingle played us out.
The moment the camera light blinked off, the room exhaled.
