Page 67 of Wild Card 13

It was pathetic. And I hated myself for it.

"Buzz."

I looked up.

One of the communications staff stood near the locker room entrance. "Stella's waiting."

Of course she was. Postgame media.

Smile.

Answer questions.

Pretend everything made sense.

I grabbed my jacket and headed toward the interview room, hoping talking about hockey would be easier than thinking about anything else.

I was wrong.

Stella Watson waited beneath the interview lights with a microphone in one hand and that calm reporter expression that made people forget she was actively taking them apart for public consumption.

She looked polished in a way that never felt fake. Dark hair smooth over one shoulder. Northbend Sports credential clipped neatly to her blazer. Eyes sharp enough to catch every twitch, every hesitation, every answer that meant something different than the words being said.

Great. Exactly what I need.

“Ty,” she greeted.

That alone nearly knocked me off balance. Most reporters called me Buzz. Most people did. Coaches. Teammates. Fans. My own mother most of the time.

Ty sounded different in Stella’s voice. Professional, sure. But still too close to the name Lucy had ruined for everyone else.

“Stella,” I responded, forcing my expression into something that hopefully looked normal and not like I was one emotionally inconvenient syllable away from walking into traffic.

“Tough loss tonight.”

“Yeah.” I shifted my weight, still feeling the game in my legs. Sweat had dried cold beneath my dress shirt. My hair was probably doing something tragic. “Not the result we wanted.”

Her mouth twitched slightly. “That is usually how losses work.”

I huffed a laugh despite myself. “You always this gentle after a man gets publicly embarrassed?”

“I save my compassion for overtime losses.”

“Good to know.”

The camera light blinked red. Stella adjusted her stance, and the easy warmth disappeared into something cleaner. Professional. Focused. The kind of shift that reminded me she was very good at her job.

“Buzz Burns with us after the Frosthawks fall three to one to the New York Otters.” She glanced back to me. “Buzz, the Otters controlled a lot of the neutral zone tonight. From your perspective, what made it difficult to generate sustained pressure?”

“They were tight through the middle,” I said, settling into theanswer automatically. “They didn’t give us much space to build speed, and we didn’t adjust fast enough. When a team plays that connected, you have to simplify earlier. Get pucks deep. Win battles below the goal line. We tried to force plays through traffic, and they made us pay for it.”

Stella nodded once. “You had a chance late in the second. Looked like the puck rolled on you a little.”

My jaw tightened before I could stop it. There it was. “Yeah,” I said. “It did.”

“You looked frustrated coming back to the bench.”

“I was.”