One Night, One Shot

The echoing concrete tunnels of Northwood Civic Arena were usually my sanctuary after a game, but tonight, they felt like a trap. The home loss still burned in my chest, a heavy, suffocating weight that made every breath taste like stale ice and failure. I had my stick in my hands, a fresh roll of tape dangling from my fingers, re-taping the blade for the third time just to give my hands something to do. “Morrow. Stop walking.” I turned. Camila Ortega stood in the doorway of the cramped PR office, her phone clamped in one hand and a stack of printed papers in the other. She did not look like a woman who had just watched her team blow a two-goal lead in the third period. She looked like a woman who was watching a bomb tick down to zero. “I am not doing press, Camila,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “Coach Reyes said the room was closed.” “The room is closed. The internet is not,” she said, stepping back and gesturing for me to enter. “Get in here. Now.” I hesitated, the tape sliding off my fingers. I stepped into the fluorescent glare of her office. “We have a leak,” Camila said, shutting the door behind me. She did not sugarcoat it; she never did. “Ninety minutes until a major network runs a piece detailing a toxic rift in our locker room. Specifically, it frames you as a ruthless grinder staging a locker-room coup to edge out Percival Frost while he is on injured reserve.” The air vanished from the room. My grip on my stick tightened so hard my knuckles popped. It was like taking a blindside hit into the glass. A leak. The word alone dragged me back three years, to the linemate who had sold edited footage of me to the media, nearly ending my career before it started. The panic was instantaneous, a cold sweat breaking over…