The rest of the match is a blur of adrenaline and stubbornness. I play through the ache, ignoring the tug in my ribs every time I twist. We win, barely.
After the final whistle, I head toward the locker room with a limp and the rush of blood still hammering in my ears. I toss my gloves on the bench and sit down hard.
The guys are hyped, yelling, half-dressed, dripping sweat and victory. It always takes forever in here—stretching, getting patched up, coaches barking, everyone talking over each other.
I’m just tired. Just want to get back to Blake. She bailed right after the game, and I know she went straight home. My little homebody doesn’t need to be alone at the flat any longer than necessary.
I peel off my shirt and open my duffel to grab a change of clothes. The rest of the team is buzzing, loud with the kind of adrenaline that makes every win feel bigger than it is. My shoulder throbs where I hit the turf, my ribs still ache from that last collision, but I’ll deal with it later.
I should be soaking it in, celebrating with the guys, replaying the saves and the final whistle.
But all I can think about is Blake on the sideline. How she looked when the game ended, half-smile tugging at her mouth like she couldn’t decide whether to clap for me or throw a water bottle at my head for all the mistakes I made while distracted. And I can’t stop wondering—was she there for me? Or was she just restless, wanting to be out and about, and I happened to be the unfortunate entertainment she landed on? The idea that she might’ve chosen to watch me on purpose is nice, but unlikely.
I shove my jersey into the bag and zip it closed with more force than necessary. The guys are still riding the high, but I move through the motions. Shower, change. By the time I’m lacing up my shoes, my head’s already somewhere else.
I wish we could have walked back together, maybe even hand in hand. God, I want that more than anything.
But that’s a daydream that won’t be coming true anytime soon, because Blake doesn’t wait around for me or anyone else. She wouldn’t, no matter how much I wish she thought of me the way I can’t seem to stop thinking of her.
So I sling my bag over my shoulder and head back to the flat, where I know I’ll find her.
Maybe she’ll even nurse my injuries if I play pathetic enough. More likely, she’ll call me a drama queen and tell me to walk it off. Either way, I’ll take it.
Chapter 9
Blake
I’m trying to study.
Or at least pretend I am. There’s a textbook open in front of me, highlighter cap clenched between my teeth, and half a page of barely legible notes scribbled in my worst handwriting. The living room is quiet except for the soft whirr of the fridge and the occasional creak from the hallway heater.
Walking back from the game, this part of Washington has already dropped into that early chill that bites at your face. I don’t mind. I love fall here. The gray skies, the damp air, the way the cold feels clean in my lungs. Through the cracked window, the smell of rain and wet leaves sneaks in, earthy, wrapping the whole apartment in the reminder that the season’s settled in for good.
Mads isn’t back from the game yet, which means I’m blissfully free from background grunting, mansplaining from the couch, or him dramatically reading his own texts out loud like I’m supposed to care what his ex wrote at 2 a.m.
I don’t know how long the freedom will last. For all I know, he’s out celebrating with the rest of the team—or he’s the type to head straight home after a win. I want to assume the former, but honestly? No clue.
He’s been weirdly overbearing for the last few days. Hovering. Micromanaging. I’m shocked he didn’t skip showering in favor of walking me home. He’s barely let me microwave my own oatmeal. Yesterday, he followed me to the laundry room. The day before that, he tried to convince me to skip class because “the lighting in the hallway looked weird.”
I get that he’s freaked out. I am too. But if he’d had his way, I’d be in bubble wrap with a walkie-talkie clipped to my hoodie.
Still, it’s quiet, and I should take advantage of that before he barges back in. My biomechanics notes are spread across the coffee table, highlighters scattered, textbook open to a chapter I’ve already read twice. If I can just get through a few more pages, maybe I’ll feel like I’ve done something useful today.
Not that it matters. I can’t focus anyway. My vision keeps swimming.
I blink hard. Try to refocus. Go back to the paragraph I’ve read three times now. Something about comparative gait mechanics under variable load conditions. Or maybe it’s the nutritional habits of freshwater mollusks. I honestly couldn’t say.
There’s a weird pressure behind my eyes. My temples throb in slow pulses. I sit up straighter, dragging in a long, steadying breath through my nose. It’s fine. I’m fine. Probably just tired. We had a brutal conditioning session today. I barely ate, and this week’s been... a lot.
I’m already dreading cleaning the bleachers in the morning. All I want is to sleep until noon and pretend this punishment isn’t a thing.
I briefly wonder what I could bribe Mads with to get him to do it without me, but I shake that thought loose fast. Mostly because it immediately veers into wildly inappropriate territory involving me on my knees and him not saying no. And, unfortunately, I don’t hate the idea.
I rub my wrists absently under the sleeves of my hoodie.
The air in the apartment is stuffy. That’s probably why I’m feeling off. I shift on the couch and toss the blanket off my lap. The pages of my notes blur together again.
I think I’m just stressed. Or coming down with something.
