“Funny,” Ty grunted, tone light but edged just enough to register. “Didn’t hear any of you complaining when he cleared space for Zee earlier.”
“Didn’t hear anyone asking for it, either,” the first voice shot back.
“Jesus,” someone else muttered under their breath. “We won. Can we not do this right now?”
“Yeah,” another added, quieter. “Let it go.”
I stripped my jersey off and tossed it into the bin, the fabric damp and heavy in my hands before it left them. Sweat cooled fast against my skin, the room’s heat clashing with the chill still trapped in my bones.
“You good?” Oliver asked from my left, not looking at me when he said it.
“Fine.”
He nodded once, like that was enough.
Across the room, Cam stood near the center again, tape still half on his wrists, eyes tracking the space like he was cataloging everything without saying a word.
Zee dropped down onto the bench in front of his stall, still breathing hard, adrenaline not done with him yet. His gaze flicked toward me once—quick, uncertain—before he looked away again, rubbing the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
Guilt. That sat heavier than the chirps.
“Hey,” Ty clapped his hands once, loud enough to cut through the room. “If anyone’s got a problem, take it outside. Otherwise, shut the fuck up and enjoy the fact that we didn’t embarrass ourselves tonight.”
“Relax,” the same voice came back, easy. “Just saying what everyone’s thinking.”
A few guys laughed again. The tension didn’t disappear—but it shifted. Moved. Spread out instead of sitting in one place.
Good enough. For now.
Coach’s voice cut through a second later, sharp and grounded. “All right, bring it in.”
The room pulled together in pieces, guys still half-undressed, still riding the high, but focused enough to listen.
“Good win,” he bellowed. “That’s now the standard. Anything less is now beneath you. Gentleman, congratulations.It’s about damn fucking time.” His gaze flicked to me for half a second. “Enjoy it,” he finished. “Then reset. Media’s waiting.”
Guys broke apart again, faster this time. Towels got grabbed. Water bottles emptied. A few last laughs, a few last muttered comments that didn’t quite land anywhere before they dissolved into the movement toward the showers and the hallway.
The media roomsat just down the corridor, already buzzing.
The lights hit hard—bright, direct, flattening everything into something easier to consume. Cameras lined up in rows. Faces behind them already turned, already tracking, already deciding what they were going to take from whatever came out of my mouth.
Bea stood just off to the side of the podium, tablet in hand, posture straight, expression composed in that way she wore like armor. Clean lines. Neutral mouth. Eyes steady and unreadable to anyone who didn’t know what to look for.
I did.
Her shoulders were tight. The kind of stillness that came from holding yourself in place while everything around you pushed.
Her jaw was set just enough to tell me she’d already been fielding questions before I got there. Her gaze flicked up when I stepped fully into the room, locking on mine for half a second—sharp, assessing—before sliding back into place like nothing had passed between us at all.
“Two minutes,” she said quietly as I approached, voice pitched low enough not to carry. “Keep it clean. They’re going to push on the ruling.”
“Of course they are,” I replied.
Her mouth pressed thin for a fraction of a second before she added, softer—“They’re already asking about me.”
I felt the implication settle somewhere under my ribs as I looked at her again—the way she held the tablet just a little tighter than necessary, the way her weight was balanced evenly like she was bracing for impact instead of standing at rest.
“They implying you spun it?” I asked.