“I saw her.”
Evan hands me one slice. I take it because arguing with Evan about pizza requires energy I do not have.
“Brave of her to show up,” Evan says.
“Still hate it,” Evan adds. “The article. The exposure. The part where my mother asked if I was one of the elephants.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “You told her?”
“She reads everything. Horrifying woman. Love her deeply.” Evan bites into his pizza. “But Hayes showing up without a credential? That’s not nothing.”
“No.”
“You going to do anything about it?”
“We’re in the playoffs.”
“Classic. Very masculine. Scheduling feelings around the postseason.”
I toss my towel at him.
Evan catches it one-handed and throws it back. “I’m serious.”
“That must be uncomfortable for you.”
“Deeply.” Evan’s face sobers. “Most of the boys are with you. Some of them are still pissed. Some of them don’t know what to do with the fact that the reporter they don’t trust told the truth better than we did. But they’re with you.”
I lean back against my stall.
“Silas?”
“Silas is not the room.”
An Evan answer: sharp, annoying, useful.
At home, I drop my bag by the door and stand in the dark kitchen, too wired to sleep, too exhausted to think clearly. My phone is full of messages. Zach. Colt. My father. My mother. The twins, using too many exclamation points. A team thread already degrading into insults and blurry photos.
My phone lights again before I can set it down.
Emma FaceTime.
I answer.
The screen fills with a ceiling fan.
“Move your hand,” Emma says. “He cannot see us.”
Half of Lily’s forehead slides into frame.
“I can see one eyebrow,” I say.
Lily gasps. “My good one?”
“Debatable.”
The phone jerks, and both girls appear on screen in matching playoff shirts. Emma’s is tucked in. Lily’s has a chocolate stain near the shoulder that nobody in the family is going to survive mentioning.
“You won,” Emma says.