Because all I can hear is the way they were talking about her.
Like she wasn’t a player. Like she wasn’t our teammate.
They were talking about her like she wasn’t even human.
Russo steers me toward the bus.
“Get on,” he says.
I climb the steps without looking back.
Inside, it’s quieter.
The door shuts behind us, cutting off the noise.
For a second, I just stand there.
Hands still clenched.
Trying to get my breathing back under control.
She’s not here, I knew that already.
Tara took her out the back. A quiet exit to avoid the cameras and questions.
I drop into a seat and stare out the window.
The reporters are still outside, pressing against the barriers, shouting questions at nothing now.
Looking for a story.
They’ve got one.
We won a championship.
And somehow that’s the last thing anyone cares about.
30
ZANE
Monday morning feels like a hangover without the alcohol.
The locker room is quieter than it’s been all season. No music - just the dull, familiar sounds of gear being pulled on and sticks tapping lightly against the floor.
Grant is back.
He’s sitting two lockers down from me, lacing his skates like nothing happened, like the last few weeks didn’t exist. The line we built - me, Russo, Shaw - was just… temporary.
She was temporary.
I can’t look at him.
The door opens and Coach Calloway walks in.
Everyone straightens, almost automatically.
You can feel it before he even speaks.
