Page 68 of Wild Card 13

She let the silence sit for half a beat. “Because of the missed chance?”

Because of the missed chance.

Because of the pass I should have handled clean.

Because of the shift before it.

Because of the whole damn day.

Because Lucy Thomas had gotten on a plane that morning with a book in her hand and a wall around her chest, and I had spent every hour since pretending my body did not remember exactly how she used to feel beneath my hands.

I gave Stella a smile instead. “Because I like scoring goals.”

Her brows lifted. “Groundbreaking insight.”

“I’m giving you gold here.”

“You’re giving me something.”

“Use it wisely.”

She shook her head, but she was smiling now, just a little. The interview light softened the edges of the hallway behind her, turning the concrete corridor and sponsor backdrop into something almost cinematic. Beyond the cameras, equipment cases rolled toward the loading area. Voices echoed in uneven bursts. The whole arena still hummed with postgame motion, but all I could feel was how tired I was.

Stella glanced down at her notes, then back up at me. “Coach talked about accountability after the game. Where do you think that starts?”

“With us.” The answer came faster this time. Easier, because it was true. “Nobody in that room is looking around for someone elseto blame. We know what we put on the ice. We know what wasn’t good enough.”

“Including you?”

I looked at her. “Especially me.”

Her expression shifted slightly. Just enough to tell me she heard more than I meant to say. “You were not on the ice for all three goals against,” she reminded.

“No.”

“And yet?”

“And yet I had chances to change the game.” I swallowed once, gaze flicking briefly toward the concrete floor before I brought it back up. “That’s the job.”

“Last one,” she said. “Chicago is next. What do you take from this one?”

“Flush it.” I gave the answer every player gave because sometimes clichés existed for a reason. “Watch the tape. Fix what needs fixing. Get back to work.”

“And maybe sleep?”

That pulled a real laugh out of me. “Let’s not get unrealistic.”

“Fair enough.” Stella turned back toward the camera. “Buzz Burns after the Frosthawks’ three-one loss in New York. Thanks, Buzz.”

The red light clicked off. Immediately, the hallway came back louder.

Stella lowered the microphone. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think that one was on you.”

I should have said thank you. Should have nodded like a normal person.

Instead, I dragged a hand through my damp hair and looked toward the end of the hall where players and staff were already disappearing toward the bus. “Yeah,” I said. “Well. Good thing that’s not how it feels.”

She studied me for another second. Reporter eyes. Too smart. Too observant. “You always carry losses like that?”