That earned a round of wheezing laughs.
Adam, white-haired, pretty-boy menace with half the discipline and all the swagger—was grinning across the room like this was his favorite Netflix show.
“I’d fake-date her,” Beckett said, adjusting his compression sleeve. “Just for the content.”
Beckett Mason, the team’s youngest forward and biggest shit-stirrer, had the kind of chaotic energy that should’ve been illegal. He thrived off drama like it was protein.
“Only if it’s a triple date,” Derek added, laughing from the cold tub. Loud, tatted-up, too many earrings, too much cologne even after practice.
I didn’t respond.
Logan sat on the bench across from me, silent, sipping his protein shake like a monk observing chaos from the mountaintop. Stoic. Calm. Probably deadly in a dark alley.
“Man’s never gonna live it down,” Wyatt said, arms crossed, voice sharp. “You deserved it.”
That one stung more than I wanted to admit.
Wyatt—team captain, ex-military, annoyingly always right—didn’t waste words. If he thought I earned that public takedown, then hell, maybe I had.
I rolled my eyes and tossed a towel into my locker with more force than necessary.
“She’s annoying,” I muttered, standing up. “All teeth, no bite.”
The locker room howled again, as if I’d just thrown gasoline on the fire.
Adam clutched his chest like he was wounded. “No bite? She called you a defensive fossil with a god complex on national television.”
“She said you dodge questions like you dodge assists,” Beckett added.
“Dude,” Derek wheezed. “She said you’d have a ring if you passed the ball more. That’s a bite.”
I ignored them.
Sort of.
Truth was, I couldn’t stop hearing her voice, even now—cool, clipped, completely unbothered as she laid me out like it was just another Tuesday.
I hated that it echoed in my head.
I hated that she’d looked good doing it.
I hated even more that she’d hit too close to where it actually hurt.
But I wasn’t about to give the guys that satisfaction.
The locker room was still buzzing—mostly with Adam’s dramatics and Derek’s half-serious thirst tweets about Daphne Sommers—when the door opened and Coach walked in.
Reid Lawson didn’t raise his voice. He just stood there for a beat, arms crossed, gaze cold enough to freeze the whole damn room.
The noise died fast.
“Focus up,” he said, tone dry as sandpaper. “We’ve got a scrimmage in thirty. Media access is open. And Sommers’ll be on-site today, so keep your pants zipped and your mouths shut.”
A collective groan rolled through the room.
Adam dramatically slumped back onto the bench like someone had just canceled his birthday. “Coach, c’mon. I was gonna give her my good side today.”
“You don’t have one,” Wyatt muttered.
