The captain tries to shoo the reporters away, but they herd him out like he’s a sheep dog that forgot its own name.
O’Doul starts up with the “press pass privilege” jokes, but even he shuts up once the wall of recorders and ring lights closes in.
The team mostly bails, scattering to the showers, letting the circus run itself.
I watch it from ten feet away, striping off my pads, trying to stay invisible, but not really missing a thing.
Ash is calm. The last four months have sandblasted most of the fear out of him. He sits on the edge of the bench, towel around his neck, nodding along as the first wave of local guys ask the classics.
How’s it feel to finally get your shot? What was going through your head on the winning play? How’s the hand? Are you ready for the next round?
He handles it better than I ever did. Gives the right quotes, gives the credit to the team. “I just had to finish what Darius started. Without the pass, there’s no play.”
He says my name like it’s a borrowed word, like he’s still not convinced it belongs to him.
The questions circle back, ratcheting tighter every round.
You ever think you’d get this far? What do you say to the people who wrote you off? Do you think you’ve proved you belong?
The edge in the questions is new.
Normally the press would rather interview a blender than a third-liner, but today they’re on him like he’s the next viral sensation, which in a way, he is.
There’s a beat.
Then, out of the mess, someone new steps forward. Not one of the old beat writers, not even the intern with the selfie stick, but a guy in a tailored jacket and an intensity to his face that makes him look like he’s either about to solve your murder or commission one.
“Vincent Chen,” he says, pushing in through the crush, every syllable of his name sharper than the last. “The Backcheck.” Nobody’s ever heard of it, but it doesn’t matter; he holds the room like he’s got a badge and a warrant.
But it's not the questions that get me.
It's the way he watches Ash, eyes locked, body angled in, everything else in the room dismissed. I recognize the look, because I've felt it on my own face.
Possessive interest.
He doesn’t ask about the play. He doesn’t ask about the team.
He looks right at Ash, cocks his head, and says, “What drives someone who’s been overlooked this long?”
There’s a pause, one of those rare silences in a media scrum, the kind where everyone wants to see if the target will flinch.
Ash doesn’t. He lifts his chin, wipes a trickle of sweat off his face, and meets the stare. “Just happy to be here, man. I know what I bring. I’m not flashy, but I don’t break.”
Vincent doesn’t blink. “But do you think that’s enough? To stick? Or is this just another season of being the sub?”
It’s a punch, and everyone feels it. Half the team would have folded. Ash shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out. Maybe I get lucky. Maybe someone up top realizes I’m not going anywhere.”
He tries to laugh it off. It’s not nervous, just raw. Honest.
Vincent smiles, but it’s not friendly. “Seems like you thrive on low expectations. Maybe that’s your superpower.”
Ash’s mouth twitches. “Better than having none at all.”
Some of the press peel away, heading for the captain or the coach. But Vincent stays, leaning in, gaze locked.
The only sound is the whine of the skate dryer and a couple of the guys arguing over who gets to hit the shower first.
He drops his voice, drops the act. “I’d love to grab coffee, sometime. Not for a story. Just…” He glances over the top of the scrum, then back at Ash, holding him in place with the gravity of his stare. “I’d like to get to know you.”
