The third period felt like skating uphill.
Every stride took more than it should. Every play required more effort than it returned. We got one back—dirty goal, rebound jammed in at the crease—but it didn’t shift anything.
They answered five minutes later.
3–1.
Game over—Otters’ victory.
The locker roomwas quieter this time. Gear came off slower. Tape peeled in long, deliberate strips. Someone dropped a glove, the sound louder than it should’ve been.
No one looked at me when I walked in. They’d all seen enough.
I sat, pulling my gloves off, fingers flexing once as the cool air hit damp skin. My shoulders ached. My legs felt heavy. My head— a little too clear.
That was the problem.
Cam said something from across the room, low and controlled, directed at no one and everyone at the same time. About structure. About discipline. About playing the system instead of chasing.
No one argued. No one agreed. It just sat there.
The door opened as heels clicked in a steady rhythm. Soft. Precise. Out of place in a room that smelled like sweat and loss.
I could feel it. The shift of air. The attention snapping to response. The way the room registered her presence differently than it did anything else.
“Media in five,” Bea called, cutting clean through the stale musk and sullen mood.
I stood, grabbing a towel, dragging it once over the back of my neck before tossing it aside.
“You’re first,” she added, stepping closer.
I finally looked at her. Big mistake. Her expression didn’t change. Professional. Composed. Exactly what it needed to be.
“Let’s go,” I huffed.
The air thickened the second the door closed behind us, the noise of the room cutting off clean while the clamor ahead sharpened—voices competing, clipped, impatiently waiting.Cameras adjusted. Tripods shifted. Someone cleared their throat like it mattered.
Blinding lights stripped depth out of everything, turned faces into angles, expressions into something easier to read than they should have been.
“Müller—”
I stopped where I was supposed to, shoulders squared, stance steady, hands loose at my sides.
“Talk about the hit in the second—what was your read there?”
Straight to it—that’s a relief.
“It was late,” I reasoned. “I adjusted.”
“Adjusted how?” another voice pushed, sharper, leaning in.
I looked at him. Young. Hungry. Looking for something he could use.
“I didn’t finish it,” I replied.
“That’s not typically for you,” someone else added, tone lighter. “Do you think that hesitation cost your team momentum tonight?”
There it was. The angle. The narrative.