Chapter 4 #2
I hit play.
At first, I didn’t even listen. The sound was on, but I barely registered the words. I was watching her face—the sharpness in her eyes, the way her jaw clenched when I said something deliberately awful, the faint twitch in her brow when I hit a nerve.
She didn’t flinch. Not really.
But she felt it.
Most people shut down when you pressed like that. Retreated into their script. Smiled politely. She didn’t. She squared up.
She was better than the league thought.
Better than I gave her credit for.
She didn’t just want a headline or a hot take. She wanted the truth. Even if it was ugly. Even if she had to drag it out of someone like me.
And maybe that was what caught me off guard.
She looked at me like I was a puzzle she could solve.
She was wrong.
But damn if I didn’t like the way she tried.
I paused the footage, frozen on her expression—eyebrows furrowed, mouth slightly parted, chin lifted like she was daring me to lie to her.
I leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, and stared at the screen for a long time.
I didn’t like reporters.
Never had.
They dug too deep. Got too close. Twisted things.
But this one?
She wanted answers, not angles.
And something about that made my chest ache in a way I didn’t have a name for.
I caught myself smiling—just a little—and immediately scowled.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, running a hand down my face. “The brat’s got bite.”
The room stayed silent, the screen still frozen on her face.
And I had a sinking feeling that this whole thing—this season, this PR circus, this forced proximity was going to be a hell of a lot more dangerous than I thought.
Three years ago, I made the mistake of being honest.
We’d just lost the semifinals—brutal game, extra time, last-minute goal that knocked us out. I was drained. Physically. Mentally. Didn’t even remember the post-match interview until I saw the headlines the next morning.
I hadn’t said anything wild. Nothing scandalous. Just… truth.
“I’m tired. Not just the match. Everything. The pressure, the expectations. It’s a lot sometimes.”
I talked about burnout. About playing through pain. About the weight that came with being the face of a franchise that demanded perfection, even when your body was breaking.
It was vulnerable.
I thought it was human.
The reporter—some slick-suited parasite with too many Twitter followers and not enough ethics, something Blake—twisted every word.
“Walker admits to mental instability following loss.”
“Storm Captain Cracks Under Pressure.”
“Entitled Veteran’s Meltdown Goes Viral.”
They clipped my sentences mid-thought. Took my “I need to reevaluate what matters” and turned it into “I don’t care about the team anymore.”
The backlash was immediate.
Sponsors dropped within 72 hours. Fans flooded my mentions with snake emojis and trade demands. The front office stripped me of the captain’s band “to protect the locker room culture.”
I didn’t talk to media for months after that.
And when I did?
It was with rehearsed lines, PR-safe phrases, and a frozen smile that never quite reached my eyes.
Since then?
No real interviews.
No “off the record” bullshit.
No trust.
I gave the league their robot. Their perfectly packaged player with just enough grit and zero depth.
Then came her.
Daphne Sommers.
Sharp tongue. Sharp heels. Sharper instincts.
I’d expected more of the same—chasing drama, looking for blood, maybe angling for a new contract off my downfall.
But she didn’t twist my words.
She didn’t have to.
She hit me with them.
Called me a washed-up legend. Mocked the ego, poked at the legacy, dragged the spotlight to all the places I’d spent three years avoiding.
And somehow—it was better.
Because at least she was honest.
At least it was real.
She didn’t try to spin a headline. She didn’t shrink back when I pushed her. She stared me down like she wanted the whole picture, not just the part that fit the narrative.
And it stung, yeah.
Because she saw the cracks I thought I’d hidden under steel and stats and snark.
But she didn’t use them against me.
She didn’t lie.
That was new.
That was dangerous.
Because I could fight lies. I could shut down spin.
But truth?
Truth got under the skin.
Truth was harder to ignore.
And Daphne Sommers?
She was all sharp truths, wrapped in lipstick and fire.
And I hated that part of me didn’t want to block her out… it wanted to let her in.
My phone buzzed as I walked out of the shower, towel slung over one shoulder, hair still damp and clinging to my neck.
I grabbed it from the nightstand and flopped down on the edge of the bed, not expecting much. Maybe an update on our travel schedule. Maybe another rookie asking what protein powder I used like it was a secret potion.
Instead, it was from Cameron.
Daphne’s coming back tomorrow. Play nice. You’re not allowed to glare at her like you did Adam that one time.
I smirked.
No promises.
Buzz.
She’s doing a full-access feature. Cameras in the locker room next week.
I sat up straighter.
Cancel it.
Too late. League already greenlit it. PR dream. Make yourself look… less stabby.
I stared at the screen for a beat, then chucked the phone in my bag. It landed facedown on my practice jersey, mocking me silently.
I ran a hand through my hair, resisting the urge to punch something.
Full access.
Cameras. Mics. Sommers, front and center, with that unreadable stare and arsenal of gotcha questions dressed up as journalism.
It wasn’t just that she’d gotten under my skin—it was the fact that she did it so effortlessly.
I reached for the phone and pulled up the interview again.
I’d watched it more times than I was proud to admit.
Not for the sound bites. Not even for damage control.
But for her.
The way she sat—back straight, eyes locked on mine like she saw something worth challenging.
The way her voice didn’t waver, even when I pushed.
The way her smile didn’t reach her eyes, but her fire burned hotter than anyone else I’d ever sat across from.
I fast-forwarded through the middle, past the sarcasm and the clipped answers, straight to the ending—where she stood, ripped off her mic, tossed her coffee in the trash like it was a grenade, and walked out like she owned the damn building.
I hit pause.
Freeze-frame.
There she was—backlit by studio lights, her spine straight with fury, her jaw set, her eyes lit with that spark that said I don’t run. You’ll have to knock me down to stop me.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t hesitate.
She didn’t back down.
She never even blinked.
Hell.
Maybe she was the only one playing the game better than me.