Page 40 of Faking Ties

“I understand,” I say. “I’ll do better.”

“I know you will.” Coach checks his watch. “Let’s get you to your interview.”

Stepping into the brightly lit interview room, the camera lights feel like accusatory spotlights. I hold my head high, a flicker of defiance running through me. There’s no doubt they’re going to ask sharp and pointed questions. But maybe I can use this interview to prove myself to Coach and Evren.

The moment I sit down, I’m pelted by question after question.

A man in a red shirt asks, “There seemed to be a lot of frustration on the field today. How would you describe the current team morale and dynamic?”

“After a tough loss like this, there’s definitely some frustration. It's never easy to lose, especially when you feel like you could’ve done better. But we're not going to let this get us down. We'll learn from our mistakes, communicate better, and come back stronger next week.” It’s a bullshit diplomatic answer, but it works. The reporter nods and jots down some notes.

More questions come. From questioning my contract extension, to asking what my thoughts are on specific plays. I answer as neutrally as possible, and I think I’m doing a decent job.

Until a man in a black shirt says, “Your new girlfriend, Stella Wilde, came to the game today, and it justso happens to be a day your team loses. Does this mean she’s a bad luck charm?”

The reporter's question hangs in the air, a cheap shot disguised as curiosity. My jaw clenches in anger. “Are you seriously asking this bullshit right now?” I glare at the reporter. “Reaching a little too hard for a tabloid headline there, aren’t you? Stella didn’t influence how the team played, period. And bringing my personal life into this interview is a low fucking blow.”

The air crackles with tension and I’m done with being polite. If they’re going to blame Stella for the team’sperformance, they can go fuck right off with that line of thinking.

“That’s all for today,” I say, grabbing my bag and storming out of the room. The loss will be dissected, analyzed, and replayed for days. But blaming Stella? That’s unacceptable. She’s off-limits.

I shower and change into my normal clothes as fast as possible. When I check my phone, there’s a new text from my dad.

Dad: Your performance was a disappointment. If you actually cared about winning, you wouldn’t be wasting away everything we’ve worked so hard for.

Me: I played as best as I could.

Dad: Your best isn’t good enough. Get some extra practices in this week and make up for it.

I shovemy phone in my pocket, hating that he’s saying everything I’m already thinking. If I don’t win, I’m nothing. It doesn’t matter that the team’s not working well together, or that we made some stupid mistakes. In Dad’s eyes, it all still reflects on me. In his eyes, it’s always my fault if the team loses.

When I exit the locker room, I find Stella waiting for me in my team colors of dark green and white. Her face lights up when she spots me. Sidestepping her security, she pulls me into a hug. For a single moment, all my disappointment fades into the background. With her arms around me, everything is better.

“Hey,” she says.

I breathe her in, taking a moment to hold someone who doesn’t hate me, who doesn’t blame me.

“You doing okay?” she asks, whispering the question into my ear.

And just like that, I’m reminded of our failure from today. Agitation rises inside me, and I can’t stop from snapping, “I just lost a game.” I pull out of the hug. “In what world would I be okay after that?”

“Okkaaaay.” She glances around, probably takingnote of all the people still around. “Let’s get out of here.”

I nod once and lead her to my car. Every shutter of the cameras causes my rage to ratchet up. It takes all my willpower to keep my face blank. I refuse to give them the shot they want. The one where I make a fool of myself that’ll spur more headlines I can’t afford to have right now.

“That was a tough game,” she says once we’re on the road.

“How would you know?” I glance at her, my anger at myself spilling over onto her. “You don’t know anything about football.”

“Wow, are you always this horrible after losing, or am I getting special treatment?”

I blow out a long breath, trying to rein in my temper. “I’m sorry. It’s just… We lost and it’s a critical time for me. Then the reporters started blaming you and I’m just over it.”

“They were blaming me?”

“Don’t worry, I shut that line of questioning down.”

“It’s pretty ridiculous they think I have that kind of power. That would be cool, though.”

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