Jake appears at my side, arms crossed. “Might want to walk that back, man.”
Micah looks around the room, searching for allies and finding none. The guys are either staring him down or deliberately looking away, the universal sign that you’re on your own, asshole. I don’t even have to be looking at them to know that’s what’s happening right now.
“Look, I was joking around,” Micah says, his voice higher than usual. “Didn’t mean anything by it. I don’t even know the girl.”
“Youdidmean something by it, but you sure don’t know the girl. Thank fucking Christ for that,” I say quietly.
Sebastian appears at my side, his expression unreadable as he glances between Micah and myself. “Everything good here?”
“Just fine,” I answer, not taking my eyes off Micah. “Micah was just leaving to finish his job. Weren’t you?”
The equipment manager’s face flushes red as he mutters something under his breath and backs away, helmets clutched to his chest like a shield.
“Thought so,” I say, watching him retreat.
The tension in the room dissipates gradually, like air leaking from a balloon. Sebastian gives me a look—one of those silent communications we’ve perfected over the years—before moving on to check on the next injury.
I sink back onto the bench, suddenly aware of the guys watching me. It’s not like me to get heated. I’m the steady one, the guy who defuses situations, not creates them.
“Damn, Haynes,” Boone whistles low. “Never seen you get worked up like that over a girl.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t about a girl. It was about respect.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s not entirely true. Something about Micah talking about Sutton that way—reducing her to some stereotype, some conquest—hit a nerve I didn’t know was exposed.
Orry drops down next to me, voice low enough that only I can hear. “He may be a chauvinistic dumbass, buuuut… is he right? You flirting with a girl?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not talking about this.”
I try my best to ignore his knowing grin and check the clock on the wall instead.
Bus leaves in twenty minutes.
If traffic’s decent…
If she’s working tonight…
I shake my head, grabbing my towel, then move quickly to the showers. The thoughts of Sutton don’t go away though, and for the first time all day, I find myself wanting our time in Seattle to be over. Not because I’m tired, but because there’s somewhere else I’d rather be.
I step under the hot spray of the shower, letting it pound against my shoulders. The water pressure’s decent for a visitor’s locker room, and for a minute I just stand there, letting the heat work into muscles that will definitely be complaining tomorrow.
Sutton wouldn’t be impressed by sore muscles either. She’d probably roll her eyes and tell me it’s what I signed up for, which makes me laugh because once again, she wouldn’t be wrong.
“Haynes!” Coach’s voice carries over the shower wall. “Media’s waiting!”
“Give me five,” I call back.
I finish quickly, knowing the drill. Win or lose, there are cameras waiting, questions that need answers, soundbites they want to package into neat little segments for the highlight reels. It’s part of the job, like the soreness and the travel and the constant pressure.
I dress in the suit I packed—navy blue, white shirt, no tie because I’m not that guy—and run a hand through my damp hair. It’s as good as it’s going to get.
Seb appears at my side as I’m walking to the press room, his eyes narrowed slightly as he studies me. “You okay? That hit in the third quarter was probably harder than it looked.”
“I’m good.” I tug at my collar. “Ready to get home.”
“Since when are you in a rush after a win?”
I shrug. “Maybe I’m just tired.”
