Page 41 of Penalty Box

“And you mentioned your family came out to watch you live,” he said then. “What did that mean to you, knowing they were here in person?”

That one got me.

I shifted slightly. “It means everything. They’ve been there through all the crappy seasons and learning curves. It’s special to have them see me on a high.”

“What about the girl in that video with you?”

My neutral expression wavered. The fucking bastard. Tricked me right into it.

“Was she here tonight?” the interviewer pressed. “Is she anyone… special?”

I stiffened.

The mic was still hot, recording light still burning red.

“What girl?” I tried playing dumb to buy time. I didn’t have any media training, and God knew I was in the deep end without a paddle.

He gave a mock laugh, eyes flashing like he’d already written the headline. “The girl, Mason. The one who started a thousand TikTok memes and has her own hashtag. What is it, #Zambae?”

Fucking hell.

My jaw tensed, and I rubbed the back of my neck, giving him the tightest smile I could manage without baring teeth. “That was blown way out of proportion.”

“So… there’s nothing special about her?”

I’d deflected all I could. Coach was just beginning to trust me with the top line. I was paired with Grayson, and our game was solid. Everything I’d worked for was finally clicking into place.

One stupid answer and that would all be gone.

“No,” I said, the lie thick in my throat, almost choking me. “Nothing special. There’s no girlfriend. No prospects. I’m totally focused on the game, and nothing else. Young, free, and single.”

I ended with a nervous laugh that fizzled out the second my gaze drifted past the camera light and Bob Trent’s smug expression.

Cass was standing behind him, eyes wide with surprise.

She’d heard every goddamn word.

13

Cass

Across from me, the cracked plastic casing of my crew badge sat on the laminate desk, right next to my hydraulic systems textbook and an untouched granola bar.

Welcome to glamorous road life.

The curtains didn’t do much to block the late morning light, just made it an unflattering shade of yellow. I blinked against it, squinting through the tiny gap where they didn’t quite meet, and rested my forehead against the cool glass of the motel window.

Across the street, the Surge team bus idled in front of the Marriott Edmonton. Sleek and spotless, the kind of ride reserved for San Antonio’s stars, complete with their silver-blue logo emblazoned on the side. A few players drifted out from the sliding lobby doors, sticks slung casually over shoulders, protein shakes in hand. I looked closer, hoping to get a glimpse of Mason. A flash of his walk or that grin that always started out crooked. But he wasn’t one of the early risers.

I went back to my bed and checked my phone on the nightstand. Blank screen.

I hadn’t spoken to him, and he hadn’t bothered speaking to me. The phone went back to its spot and I flopped onto thepillows. My room smelled faintly of detergent and stale carpet, and the heater groaned every few minutes even though I’d turned it off last night.

The team stayed at the Marriott. I stayed here. One of those things made sense.

Still, I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. I wasn’t here for them, or Mason. Not officially. I was here under the lie I’d sold the crew: documenting the equipment logistics of a pro team for an engineering course assignment. Extra credit. Career-building. Practical application. All true. Mostly.

My phone buzzed, and I swiped for it, exhaling slowly when it wasn’t Mason. I wasn’t sure if that was a breath of relief or disappointment.