Page 9 of Playing Her Game

He hears it and answers with a slight sneer, “We’ll never know now, will we?”

Leo steps forward. “Rez, you’re one of the best. Fast, aggressive, competitive as hell. But when you let someone bait you into a fight we don’t need, you hurt us more than you hurt them.”

I clench my jaw. He’s right. Doesn’t mean I want to hear it.

“Kilovac and Faulker being off the ice, two players to our one, and we didn’t take advantage of that because the rest of you were pissed too."

Silence.

Hayes shifts on the bench beside me. Across the room, Beau stares at the floor with that particular expression that means he’s thinking the same thing everyone else is, but won’t say it out loud.

“Press conference in twenty,” Donovan says. “Rez, Hayes, you’re up. Keep it clean. No commentary on the refs, no shots at Brooklyn, no excuses. We lost. We own it. We move on.”

He turns toward the door, then stops.

“And Rez? Next time you want to fight someone, make sure we win first.”

The door closes behind them.

Nobody speaks for a long moment.

Finally, Saint breaks the silence. “Well. That was fun.”

“Shut up,” I mutter.

Hayes stands and claps me on the shoulder. “Come on. Let's get changed.”

I glance down at my hoodie. Right. The press conference. Fucking suit jacket.

Around us, the guys begin moving again, the locker room slowly coming back to life. I grab my shit and head for the changing area with Hayes, still hearing Donovan’s words in my head.

We lost. We own it. We move on.

But he hasn’t, or I wouldn’t be the one out there with a mic in his face.

Hayes claps me on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's go face the vultures."

We head down the corridor, our dress shoes echoing against the polished floor. The arena has that postgame energy where everything feels too loud and too quiet at the same time. Hayes walks beside me, checking his phone, probably keeping tabs on the damage control our PR team is already doing on social media.

I should be running through my answers. What I'll say when they ask about the fight, the loss, and whether I have any regrets. The standard script: We played hard, Brooklyn played harder, we'll learn from this and come back stronger.

All bullshit, but it's the bullshit they want to hear.

We turn the corner near the family areas, and I catch sight of the Brooklyn crew.

Of course they're still here.

The space looks like someone designed it specifically to make visiting teams feel worse about losing. Bright colors, a small play area with foam blocks and kid-sized furniture, comfortable seating arranged in clusters. Welcoming. Family-friendly. Everything that says, We're so confident we can bring our kids to watch us destroy you.

Kilovac leans against the wall, an ice pack pressed to his jaw. Good. Hope it hurts.

Faulker sits on a bench with a little girl on his lap. The same kid from earlier, auburn curls bouncing as she chatters at him. His fiancée, the redhead, stands beside them, talking to another woman I don't recognize.

And Anna Winterfield.

She's wearing that damn jersey with dark jeans, her coat draped over one arm. She's laughing at something the redhead says, her whole face lighting up in a way that makes her look less like a museum painting and more like an actual person.

I shouldn't be looking.