Page 100 of Playing the Field

I swallow hard, my chest tightening as I glance back at the team.

Because they’re not just disappointed.

They’re hungry.

And I know⁠—

This isn’t over.

The locker room is dead silent.

The only sound is the dull dripping of the showers, the occasional exhale of breath, the shuffling of boots against the floor.

The team is wrecked.

Physically. Emotionally.

Houston didn’t just beat them.

They suffocated them.

Every attempt to break through their defense, every strategy Graham and Brandt had thrown at them—shut down.

And now, all that’s left is the weight of it.

Dominic sits on the bench, his arms braced over his knees, sweat still dripping from his brow. His knee is swollen, and I make a mental note to get him in for ice and compression as soon as this meeting is over.

Leo leans against his locker, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Finn stares down at his hands, rubbing his knuckles absently.

Graham stands at the front of the room, near the whiteboard. He’s calm—but I know better.

Inside, he’s seething.

Not at them.

But at the loss.

He hates losing.

And so does this team.

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw, then finally speaks.

“Look at me.”

Every head lifts.

His blue eyes sweep the room, hard and unyielding.

“You feel that?” he asks, his voice measured. “That weight sitting in your chest? That burning in your gut?”

No one answers.

They don’t have to.

“We had them,” Graham says, his tone razor-sharp. “We had them—and we let them go.”