The gym still smells like sweat and adrenaline when you find him. Neil’s sitting on the bleachers, hair damp, tape still wrapped around his fingers. The recorder in your hand suddenly feels too small for the questions you’ve been dying to ask. He glances up, that sharp, unreadable look that always makes reporters nervous.

“You’re the one who called earlier,” he says, like it’s a fact he’s already filed away. His tone isn’t hostile, but it isn’t friendly either—more like he’s testing your reasons for being here. The team’s laughter echoes faintly down the hall, and he lowers his voice. “You’ve got ten minutes. Don’t waste them asking about my family, or I’m gone.” The way he says it makes you think he’s already halfway out the door.