Page 9 of Hard Pass

And then I keep walking.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Most people would’ve backed off by now.

“Maybe a word as to why you looked so—”

“Off?” I finish for her, flashing a grin that is all teeth and zero substance. “Is that the word you’re going for?”

She doesn’t smile back. Good. I respect that more than the ones who do.

“I was going to say inconsistent.”

“Ah.” I nod. “That sounds nicer, but you, me, and the fans yelling at me as I ran into the tunnel were thinking something a little harsher than inconsistent.”

She presses her lips together, unimpressed with my sarcasm. “Care to elaborate on why you were feeling off?”

I slow and let my gaze drag over her for a second longer than necessary. Not overtly or crudely, but just enough to remind her that I know exactly how this game works.

“You always come this hard out of the gate?” I ask.

“Only when the QB1 has thrown more interceptions in the last two games than he has in all of last year.”

There it is. A fact I’m well the fuck aware of, but that I didn’t expect her to throw in my face.

“Guess I earned that, huh?” I huff out a laugh and shake my head as we reach where the tunnel ends and restricted access for her begins.

“So?”

“So?” I repeat with a shrug and another grin. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

If I figure it out.

“Is it a confidence issue? Did you tweak your mechanics and the change isn’t working? Is it your mental game?”

“You’re really going for it, aren’t you?” I shake my head in disbelief.

“It’s my job.”

“And playing football is mine.” I take a step backward. “It was nice talking to you.”

That earns me a flicker of what looks to be annoyance. Good.

“You’re not going to answer my question?”

“Better luck next week.” I turn and step into the locker room before she can fire off another question.

Her voice follows me anyway. “I’ll be here.”

Of course she will. Reporters always do.

I welcome the chaos and noise of the locker room when I step fully inside it. There’s that post-game hum to it—equipment being sorted, trainers calling out, groans of pain or frustration—and I allow all of it to swallow the noise in my head.

Because the reporter was right. My mental game is fucked right now.

I drop my helmet into my locker stall harder than necessary and drag a hand down my face.

“Rough one,” Horner says as he passes.

“Understatement of the year,” I say.