Beside me, Tannen was pulling off his equipment with the same quiet focus he'd carried through most of the season. He hadn't said much after the game. Then again, he rarely did when he was unhappy with his performance.
I knew that look. I'd seen it after tough losses. Bad stretches. Playoff exits.
The difference was that this time, there wasn't much I could do about it.
The room gradually emptied around us. Players headed for media obligations, buses, families, and holiday plans. Equipment managers moved through collecting gear. Conversations faded until only a handful of people remained.
Eventually, even those disappeared.
The silence that settled over the room felt strangely welcome.
Tannen sat beside his stall with his elbows resting on his knees. Most of his equipment was gone, but he hadn't made any effort to leave. His gaze remained fixed on the floor as though the rubber matting had suddenly become fascinating.
I recognized the look. I'd seen it after bad losses. After injuries. After the funeral six months ago. For a while, neither of us spoke. We didn't need to. Years of friendship had madesilence comfortable. The kind of comfortable that only existed when somebody knew all your worst stories and stuck around anyway.
Finally, I leaned back against my stall. "You okay?"
Tannen let out a short laugh that contained absolutely no humor. "No."
The answer came immediately. No hesitation. No pretending. No automatic "I'm fine" that everyone knew was bullshit. Just the truth.
I studied him for a moment.
Most people saw the captain. The leader. The guy who wore the "C" on his chest and somehow always found the right thing to say after a loss or before a big game. They saw the player who handled interviews like a pro and carried the weight of the franchise without complaining.
I saw my best friend. And right now, he looked tired. It wasn’t the kind of tired that disappeared after a good night's sleep. The kind that settled deeper than that.
"What is it?" I asked quietly.
Tannen scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck and stared at the floor for several seconds before answering. "I don't know."
The words came out rough. Frustrated. As though he was angry at himself for not having a better explanation.
I frowned. "Don't know what?"
His jaw tightened. "What's wrong with me."
This wasn't a guy fishing for reassurance or having a bad night after a rough game. Tannen genuinely looked like someone trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
He leaned back against the stall behind him and let out a long breath. "I watch the game films afterward, and I can see the mistakes. Every damn one of them. The turnovers. The missed passes. The bad decisions. I know better. I know whatI'm supposed to do." His hands spread helplessly. "But then I get back out there, and it happens again."
I didn't rush to fill the silence. I'd learned that Tannen usually found his way to the thing he actually wanted to say if you gave him enough room.
Eventually, he shook his head. "Maybe I'm just pressing too hard."
"Maybe."
"Maybe I'm overthinking everything."
"Also possible."
A reluctant smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "You're incredibly helpful."
"I try."
That earned a snort.
For a second, the tension eased. Then it returned just as quickly.
