Chapter 3
Three
Kaeli
The locker room smells like defeat – sweat, damp tape, and silence. The kind that sinks under your skin and festers.
The reporters have already left, cameras have been packed, and the buzz of post-game adrenaline has been replaced by the hum of tired fluorescent lights. There’s hardly anyone in the locker room either.
Except for him.
He’s still here.
Ruminating and simmering in resentment in the face of loss, as he sits slumped on the bench.
Ezra’s still in half his gear, his jaw clenched tight, and frustration etched across every line of his face as sweaty hair falls over his forehead.
It’s clear today’s loss sits heavily on his shoulders as the team captain. It was just last week he took that C. Even though I hate him, I want to console him, offer him words of comfort, though I doubt I’d have any that’ll bring him solace.
So, I stick to my job. My job today is simple: get a short clip for the team socials. Nothing dramatic. No emotion. Just the right words, the right tone – so the fans would see composure instead of chaos at the transition of leadership and loss.
Ezra finally gives me the opening. “Make it quick, intern,” he mutters under his breath.
I nod and begin, keeping my voice even.
Professional.
“How do you think the team can bounce back from tonight’s loss?” I pan the camera at him, the red line blinking incessantly.
He lifts his head, eyes flicking up to mine. There’s a storm brewing in those glacial eyes – sharp, restless. His hands tightly linked together as if he’s barely restraining himself from punching a wall. “By not screwing up plays we’ve practiced a hundred times.”
The words sting even though they’re not for me. I keep my expression neutral, the camera steady.
“And what’s your mindset heading into the next game as a newly appointed captain?”
Ezra leans back on the bench, his eyes narrowing like he’s trying to get a read on me. “You always sound like that when you talk to me,” he notes.
My eyes flit from the screen of the digital camera, which is still recording, to him. “Like what?” I ask, my tone still level.
“Like you don’t feel a damn thing.”
The silence that follows is louder than a thousand words shouted in unison. The words hit harder than they should. I tighten my grip on the camera, feeling the edge press into my palm, the pain grounding me.
The distaste in his eyes makes my heart trip before it finds its rhythm again.
Counting to five, I respond. “I’m just doing my job, Captain.”
The title feels like distance. Professional. Safe.
His eyes flare wide before he laughs–low, humorless. “Right. Your job. Guess that’s all it’ll ever be with you.” He shakes his head, dropping it between his shoulders.
And then, as if his words already weren’t enough, he had to go and plunge the knife deeper.
Ezra stands up and walks right up to me, close enough that there’s hardly any space between us. The skates making him taller than he already is. I have to crane my neck to maintain eye contact.
Boring his eyes into mine, he whispers, “The great Kaeli Reed doesn’t feel.”
I know if I open my mouth now, I’ll bare myself to him, let him see the vulnerable side of me. So, I hit stop on the recording.
The silence afterwards buzzes in my ears. I nod once, forcing my voice steady. “I’ll send the clip to the PR.”
And then I turn. My steps even and back straight as I stride right out of the locker room.
I don’t look back. Only when the door clicks shut behind me do I let out the breath I’ve been holding since the moment I hit record.
Later that night, while editing the footage, I trim the clip right before he says ‘You don’t feel a damn thing.’
Because I do.
God, I do.
And that’s exactly why I can’t show it.