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“Was that a question?” I bit out from between clenched teeth.

Silence stretched as I stared down at Curt. Next to me, Bell had crossed his arms over his chest.

Curt’s gaze flicked to Penny, who was rolling her fingers in a “keep going” gesture, but I wasn’t sure if it was meant for him or for me.

“Uh, yes,” Curt stammered. “My question is if you’re looking forward to hearing what insight The Great Robert Callahan has about⁠—”

Mikey stepped forward, moving slightly in front of me.

“Everyone—from our coaching staff down to the players—is pleased with our performance,” Mikey said, his tone flat in a way I rarely heard it. “We’ve put in the work, and we’re right where we want to be heading into the New Year.”

Curt opened his mouth—likely to try and steer it back to my dad—but Mikey wasn’t finished.

He leaned forward to speak directly into Curt’s mic. “And as for Robert Callahan’s opinion—last I checked, he doesn’t play for the Marauders and has never set foot in our locker room. No one is looking to him for anything.”

Curt’s jaw went slack as Bell placed a hand on Mikey’s shoulder, flashing the camera a wide, slightly manic looking smile. “And on that note, folks, make sure to pack the arena this weekend as we take on the Gold Rush! Merry Christmas!”

Bell turned to face Mikey and me, his expression thunderous. “With me. Now.” He spun and stalked away.

“Hey! Stryker, hold up!” Curt’s voice trailed after us, his reporter persona slipping entirely as he jogged to keep pace with our longer strides. “Come on, man, I didn’t get the soundbite Penny promised—I need something about a cozy Callahan Christmas!”

Fucking Penny.

Bell lifted his hand in the air, giving Curt a dismissive wave. “That sounds like a you and Penny problem.”

Curt muttered a curse under his breath, the sound of his loafers clacking against the concrete floor going silent behind us.

Next to me, Mikey looked absolutely panicked, and rightfully so. He’d fucked up royally. Penny had clearly set me up—again—but Mikey shouldn’t have stepped in. He should have just let me stand there looking like an awkward fucking idiot. Now he looked like an asshole, while I still came off looking like an awkward fucking idiot.

We rounded the corner, nearly plowing right into Sandra. She led us directly to her office, where Bell was leaning against her desk, his toe tapping.

“Holler if you need me,” she told him, pulling the door closed behind her.

“Before you say anything, hear me out.” Mikey stepped in front of me again, going into guard dog mode even though he was probably the one who needed protecting right about now.

“What were you thinking?” Bell asked, his voice quiet. “Of all the stupid shit you could have said, you⁠—”

Mikey lifted his chin. “Was I wrong though?” he challenged. “I get it—Cally’s dad is famous. He’s probably the best goalie to ever play the game. But that has nothing to do with our team. And besides,” he continued, his voice rising, his words coming fast. “Penny keeps pulling this shit. Cally’s agent already warned Silas about those types of questions, but⁠—”

Bell raised his hand, and thankfully, Mikey snapped his mouth shut. It was one thing to piss off a reporter and our terrible PR person, but it was an entirely other thing to piss off the guy who had Coach’s ear.

Bell’s gaze swung my way. “Your agent talked with Silas?”

I mimicked his posture. “Yeah. Why do you think I haven’t been on media duty as much?”

“Because you suck at it,” Bell said bluntly.

I huffed out a small laugh. “Well, yeah. That too. But mostly because I’ve repeatedly said I don’t want to answer questions about my dad, but Penny refuses to listen. And yes, Coach knows how uncomfortable it makes me.”

Bell stared at me for a long beat, his eyes searching my face. Slowly, the hard set of his jaw eased, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He uncrossed his arms, hooking his fingers over the lip of Sandra’s desk.

Then, completely out of nowhere, “You know who my dad is?”

It took me a second to follow, but then I caught up to the sudden shift. This was a “we both have horrible fathers” conversation.

Only, mine wasn’t nearly as bad as his. While my dad had an ego the size of Massachusetts and really liked to stick his nose where it didn’t belong, his dad was the type of horrible fucking person who shipped his queer son off to conversion therapy camp thinking he could pray the gay away.

“Yes,” I gritted out, while Mikey said, “Yeah, and he’s an asshole, too.”