Page 123 of The Pucking Date
“Can you walk us through the hit on McGinty?”
Coach cuts in before I can open my mouth. “It was clean. You’ve got the footage. Next question.”
He doesn’t look at me. But that was protection.
“Finn,” someone else chimes in, “you seemed a little off tonight. Head not fully in it?”
The question hangs.
Jessica shifts.
My hands tighten under the table, but I keep my voice even. “Game was close. We wanted the win. Didn’t get it. Happens.”
A few chuckles. A pen scribbles.
Beside me, Coach exhales slowly. “We’ve got one more preseason game before we lock the roster. We’re working on chemistry. That’s all I’ll say.”
The press girl gives the wrap-it-up signal. Not Jessica’s sharp, subtle nod. This one’s too eager, too fast. Doesn’t land the way it’s supposed to.
We rise. Mics cut.
I look at Coach. He doesn’t meet my eyes.
I glance toward the door. She’s still standing there. But she’s already gone; the distance in her eyes says it all.
For a second, her eyes catch mine, pulling me in like gravity. And I almost slip. Almost forget why it’s a bad idea.
But this? It’s the reminder I needed. Stay locked in. Stay sharp.
She’s finally doing what she always talked about. Taking the plunge. And I’m proud of her. But that doesn’t mean I’m stepping into the fire again.
The reporters gather their gear. Cameras power down. Chairs scrape.
Everyone starts filing out, voices low, already shifting to next week’s narratives.
I uncap my water bottle. Take a long pull, the cold hitting my chest.
She looks at me like she’s ready to say something that’ll change everything. And I look away. Because I’m not sure I can take it if she does.
I focus on the bottle. The floor. The door. Anything but her.
But this isn’t focus. It’s survival in a suit and a too-tight collar.
The press room doors click shut behind me. The suit jacket is stiff on my shoulders, the collar scratchy against the back of my neck. I tug the top button loose and exhale.
It’s quieter out here, just the hum of overhead fluorescents and the tail end of some intern’s laughter trailing down the hall. Everyone’s moving on. Resetting storylines.
And so should I.
Then my phone buzzes. Aoife. My stomach drops before I even swipe to answer.
“Finn?” Her voice is tight, like she’s been holding it together for hours and is letting go only now.
I brace one hand on the wall, the cool plaster grounding me. “Yeah. I’m here.”
She doesn’t make me wait. “He’s gone,” she says, words breaking. “About an hour ago. He said your name at the end, Finn. He was waiting for you.”
I close my eyes and try to let it land. We knew it was coming. It still hits like a gut punch.
