“What was that about with Micah?”
I shake my head. “Absolutely nothing.”
Sebastian gives me the look. The one that says he knows I’m full of shit but is choosing to let it slide. It’s the same look he’s been giving me since we were kids. Some things never change.
“Uh-huh,” he says finally. “Well, whatever or whoever has you checking your watch every thirty seconds, try to focus on the reporters first, alright?”
Damn. Caught.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
He smirks and walks away, leaving me to enter the press room on my own. It’s the same as every away venue; bright lights, team logos, and reporters with recorders and cameras ready to catch whatever comes out of my mouth.
I take my place at the podium, already feeling the weight of twenty sets of eyes and expectations. The questions start immediately.
“Shepherd, talk about that third quarter drive?—”
“How did you see the defense adjusting?—”
“What was the communication like when?—”
I settle into the familiar rhythm of press conferences. Short answers. Praise the team. Credit the opponent. Deflect individual praise. It’s a dance I’ve perfected, giving them just enough to fill their segments without actually saying much at all.
“You seemed particularly fired up today,” one reporter notes. “More vocal than usual on the sidelines.”
Was I? I hadn’t noticed.
“Doing my job,” I say with a shrug. “Making sure everyone’s on the same page.”
“Any particular reason for the extra energy?”
I think about dark eyes and a sharp tongue telling me my pants are stupid.
“Good breakfast,” I deadpan, and a few reporters laugh.
Twenty minutes later, I’m free. The bus is waiting, and I scan the faces of my teammates as we file on board. Some are already settled in, headphones on, eyes closed, riding the post-game high into exhaustion. Others are still buzzing, phones out, probably texting family or posting highlights. Sebastian slides into a seat near the front, already buried in his tablet, no doubt reviewing injury reports.
“Sitting with us tonight, Shep?” Boone asks, gesturing to the empty seat beside him where Jake is already sprawled, eyes half-closed.
“Think I’ll take my own row,” I say. “Need to stretch out.”
Jake cracks one eye open. “Man’s got plans. Look at him.”
“I don’t have plans,” I say automatically, but my phone is in my hand, thumb hovering over the screen.
Two hours to Portland, give or take traffic.
The bus hums low and steady as we pull away from the stadium, tires crunching over loose gravel before finding smooth pavement. Outside the tinted windows, Seattle’s skyline glows against a sky that’s shifted from blue to deep indigo, the Space Needle lit up like a beacon in the gathering darkness. Headlights from passing cars streak by in blurs of white and red.
Half the team is already asleep.
The other half is pretending they aren’t.
Boone has headphones in and Orry’s scrolling through highlights on his phone like he’s fact-checking his own reality. Bennett is arguing with someone across the aisle about whether a catch counts if the defender barely breathes on you.
It’s all normal post-win chaos. It doesn’t take long before Sebastian drops into the seat next to me, tablet balanced on his knee.
“Kyler’s fine,” he says without looking up. “Swelling’s minimal. I told him no running tomorrow.”
