I don’t even make it through the front door before I hear my name.
“…Merritt...Lena Merritt...”
The TV is on in the living room, volume just loud enough to carry down the hall. My mom must’ve left it playing. I drop my bag by the door and step closer, heart already sinking.
It’s the post‑game press conference.
And there she is.
The reporter from the lobby.
Her voice is sugary‑sweet in that way people use when they’re about to say something awful.
“Evan, witnesses say the fan was just talking to her. Why did you react so strongly?”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “Sports reporter,” I mutter. “Right.”
She sounds more like a gossip blogger fishing for drama.
I sink onto the couch, arms crossed tight. My stomach twists as I listen.
Evan sits at the table, jaw tight, eyes sharp. He
