I rack the weight with more control than I feel.
“Internet.”
He nods once like that explains enough.
It does.
By the time practice starts, the article has spread.
I know because our manager gives me one of those careful looks people do when they want to know if they should be concerned about your impulse control.
I know because a freshman guard mutters, “That site is trash,” when I pass.
I know because Coach calls me over before tip drill and says, “You don’t get ejected over a C level sports reporter’s garbage story.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He studies me for another second.
Then:
“You can answer it after the game. You answer it in here first.”
That lands.
Because he’s right.
Whatever I say later only means something if I back it up now.
So I do.
The whole practice feels like my blood has teeth.
Every cut harder.
Every closeout sharper.
Every jumper cleaner because anger, when it’s disciplined, is just focus with a bruise under it.
And all through it there’s this steady second track in my head:
Stella.
Reading that garbage.
Maybe not saying much.
Maybe going cold in that lethal way she gets when she’s hurt and trying to turn it into steel.
I hate that I know exactly how that looks.
By the end of practice, our SID catches me with a tablet in one hand and tension around her mouth.
“There’s going to be a question about it tonight.”
