Page 119 of The Grumpy Defenseman
The question was simple. The weight behind it was not. Brick joked about everything and meant very little of it, except when it came to the people he loved. Somewhere in the chaos of the last seven weeks, I had been added to that list.
“Yeah,” I said. “He is.”
Brick studied me for a beat. Whatever he saw in my face must have satisfied him, because his expression relaxed into something genuine. Not the warmth he wore for cameras and crowds. The real thing. The version he kept for people who had earned it.
“Good,” he said.
Behind him, Ryan skated past slowly enough to make it clear he was not listening and absolutely was. Finn, less subtle by design, lifted both brows at Brick from the face-off circle.
Brick ignored them with the dignity of a man pretending he had dignity.
Then, with the timing of someone who understood that sincerity needed an exitstrategy, he added, “Just so you know, if he hurts you, I’m not fighting him. I’m telling Sully. He’ll make the rest of camp educational.”
I laughed. “That is honestly the most effective threat I have ever heard.”
“I’m a simple man,” he said, and skated away like he had just deposited a valuable thing and did not need a receipt.
Finn coasted by a second later. “For the record, I would have fought him.”
Ryan did not look up from adjusting his glove. “No, you would not.”
“I would consider it emotionally.”
“That is more accurate.”
Brick pointed at both of them from twenty feet away. “Private conversation.”
Finn grinned. “Then conduct it with less audience participation.”
Ryan’s mouth almost moved. Almost.
I lifted my camera before any of them could see me smiling.
The speculative piece ran thatafternoon.
River City Sports Daily, online only, by a reporter named Mendez who had been circling the story for weeks. The headline was predictable:
Stampede’s McKinney Passes on Seattle: What’s Keeping Him in San Antonio?
The article was thin on facts and heavy on implications. An unnamed source confirmed that McKinney had “formed a personal connection with a member of the team’s media staff.” No names. No details. Just enough innuendo to generate clicks, comments, and the particular kind of sports-media speculation that fed on itself like fire in dry grass.
Sandra handled it the way Sandra handled everything: with the efficiency of a woman who had been preparing for this exact scenario since the day she realized I was adjusting my angle to follow Evan across the ice.
She released a statement within two hours. Professional and devastating in its simplicity:
“Evan McKinney’s commitment to San Antonio reflects his values and his connection to this community. We’re thrilled to continue building around a player who chooses to be here. Personal details beyond that are his to share.”
No denial. No spin. Just a clear reframing that completely changed the story. The real story wasn’t about the player being distracted by a photographer; it was about the player choosing the city over money.
And in San Antonio, a town that had been burned by departures, rebuilds, and the churn of professional sports loyalty, that story sang.
The comments section, which I absolutely should not have read and immediately read, was overwhelmingly positive.
Finally, a guy who actually wants to be here.
This is what loyalty looks like.
Whoever she is, she must be somethingspecial.
