I’velost my cabin.
One dumb move and it’s gone.
“Remove yourself from the pitch, Graves. No arguing, no lingering. You know the rules,” gripes Blane Landry, our assistant coach.
I lift my head just in time to see Jacobson shake his. This isn’t what he asked me to do. This isn’t how his faith in me was supposed to pan out.
Yep, I’ll be lucky if I get to call myself a Red Tail come January.
Seven
The crowd disperses,and I make my way back onto the field. Time for interviews, and with my ejection from the game, I’ll have plenty of questions to answer. My sweaty uniform clings to me like regret. I’ve been sitting in it so long, it’s gone cold, and I officially smell like a locker room.
I have a mile of people waiting to talk to me, when all I want to do is get off this field and go back to my apartment.
Myapartment.
Guess I’d better get used to that once more. Because after my performance today, I’ll be forced to list the cabin tomorrow.
My stomach turns with the thought.
I zone out into the stands, staring past my current eager reporter. “Roman, do you think that red card was justified?”
I’ve answered this question five times. Exhaling through my nostrils, I close my eyes and roll my neck. Why can’t I write out one statement for the world to use?
Yes, it was justified. No, it wasn’t intentional.
I blink my eyes open and swallow, ready to move on to the next reporter, when—Stella.
She’s on the green. She and her friend are standing on the grass just feet away, next to Stan, the same security guard that allowed Willow through to talk to me.
Stella stayed.
Apparently, Willow is a resourceful one. It would seem she found a way to get Stella onto the field.
Which means my interview time is over.
“Roman?” the reporter asks, when I don’t answer her original question. “Are you happy with today’s outcome?”
Is she kidding? Did she ask me if I’m happy? I was removed from the field. We lost the game. Our season is over.
I force my gaze from Stella, who has locked her eyes onto mine. “Am I happy?” I say, looking down at the reporter in front of me.
“Yes,” the woman says, pushing her microphone closer to my face. “Are you pleased with your performance, with the outcome today?—”
“Did you ask me if I’m happy?”
Callum, not three feet from me, talking to his own reporter, goes quiet. He takes one step my way and in a low, warning voice, simply says, “Roman.”
My clueless reporter nods, waiting for my answer as if she hasn’t asked the most moronic of all questions.
My face heats with irritation, with the desire to rip into this foolish person. I clench my jaw, curl my lip, and stare at the woman, hoping that my grimace will be enough to shut her up. And yet, it’s a blurred Stella that comes into view—directly behind her, listening to my every word.
Stella, who was always soft and sweet. Stella, who doesn’t deserve the world’s stupidity either. I’m certain sheshouldn’t have been fired, that she should have won that award—whatever it was—andthat she should never be evicted from her house, community, or country. No, Stella Everly should be allowed to live wherever she wants.
Just like her brother, she is good to her core. Too good for so much hurt.
I can’t stand here with this simpleton, answering stupid questions, whilenothelping Stella.
