Page 122 of The Pucking Date
“Tell that to my therapist,” Nate mutters.
Liam lowers onto the bench next to me, voice quieter now. “You good?”
“Fine.”
“Didn’t look like it out there.”
I glance over, jaw set. “We lost by one.”
“You lit McGinty up like he kicked your dog.”
“He had it coming.”
Liam doesn’t argue. Just nods once. “Yeah. He did.”
Dmitri tosses me a towel from across the room. “Hope your head’s cleaner than your jersey.”
A few guys laugh. I force a thin smile. Can’t tell if I’m still bleeding or just empty.
The door opens with a hiss and click.
Coach steps in. No shouting. No clipboard toss. Just his usual—arms folded, jaw tight, eyes sweeping the room like he’s cataloging damage.
“Not our best,” he says. “But not soft either.”
He scans the line. His gaze lands on me. Lingers.
“Hard hit, O’Reilly.” Not praise. Not condemnation. Justa fact. Then he nods once, tight and unreadable. “We clean it up Monday. Media’s waiting.”
And he’s gone.
The speaker kicks on, something with too much bass and too little soul. It fills the space I didn’t know I needed to sit in.
I press the towel to my neck and stare at the floor. Because if I look up, I’ll scan for her again.
And I’m tired of looking for people who leave.
The media roomhums with reporters and equipment. I tell myself not to scan for Jessica. Doesn’t work.
She’s not up front. No headset. No clipboard. Not waiting to wave me off or give me a look that says don’t take the bait. My stomach clenches.
Then I spot her—back left corner, half-hidden behind the doorframe. But someone else is running the show tonight.
There’s a girl in front of her. Mid-twenties. Neat ponytail. Blazer one size too stiff. She gives Coach and me the signal. Walk up, sit down. You can feel she’s new.
I don’t make eye contact with Jessica. But I feel her presence like a static charge in the room. She’s standing there like she doesn’t belong. Like she’s already halfway out the door.
Coach takes the seat beside me. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t even glance in her direction. The first question fires before we’re even fully seated.
“Coach Novak, bit of a shakeup tonight with O’Reilly on first line left wing. Was that experimental, or are we looking at a more permanent role shift?”
Coach’s mouth tightens. “We’re trying combinations. I wanted to see him left side, play off Ken Edwards tonight. It’s preseason. That’s what it’s for.”
“Finn, how’d it feel?”
A different reporter. Younger. Thirsty. I grip the mic. “Fast. Tight. Could’ve executed cleaner in the third, but rhythm was good.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the new girl shift. She’s not looking at me; she’s flipping through cue cards. Jessica taught her that. But her hand jitters when someone shouts from the back?—
