I sat on the bench, elbows resting on my knees as I stared into the cracked paint of my locker door. My phone lay face down beside me. It hadn’t lit up in hours, but I kept checking anyway, like waiting would change the silence.
Bronx dropped down next to me, still in full gear, sweat dripping off his brow. “You gonna celebrate or sit there lookin’ like your damn dog died?”
“Not really my thing.” I pulled my shirt over my head without looking at him.
“What? Winning?”
“Celebrating.”
West flopped onto the bench on my other side, peeling off his gloves with a snap. “Bullshit. You’re usually the first one dancing around like a lunatic after a win.”
I grunted and crouched to untie my cleats. “Maybe I’m evolving.”
Bronx raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re good?”
“I’m fine.” But it came out flat. I knew it didn’t land.
Bronx didn’t let it go. “This about Ellie?”
My jaw twitched before I could stop it. I didn’t want to talk about her. Hell, it had been a couple of weeks, and even now, I was still doing everything I could to not think about her—and failing spectacularly.
I couldn’t even escape her in my own home. She wasn’t there, not physically, but she was still everywhere. One night in my house was enough to make me want to keep her there, no matter how stupid that was. My shirt still held her scent. The sheets did too. Even now, I could taste her on my tongue, as if she’d never left.
“You two have a fight?” Bronx asked.
“Nah, we’re good,” I said, trying to sound steady.
It wasn’t a lie. We hadn’t fought. She’d walked out of my kitchen and told me we needed to stay friends.
But friends don’t do what we did.
West nodded toward the tunnel. “She didn’t come tonight?”
“She’s still on tour,” I muttered, standing and slamming my locker shut harder than I meant.
I pulled out my phone again, thumb hovering over the screen, but there was nothing. Just silence. So, I went back to the messages she’d sent earlier.
Good luck today
You too
That was it. No emojis. Not even a damn exclamation point. Just a few words that could’ve come from a stranger. I knew she had a show tonight and couldn’t be here for my game, but I looked for her anyway, scanning the stands like a damn fool.
I should’ve ended this whole contract the night she stood in my kitchen wearing my shirt, regret written all over her face when she said we would have to keep pretending. That would’ve been the smart move—pull the pin, let it explode before it swallowed me whole.
I was never the one people fell in love with. I was the funny, uncomplicated guy, the one who made people laugh and didn’t ask for much.
With her, it never felt like she saw me that way.
Not once.
Now, I understood the truth she never said aloud—that maybe she never wanted the real me. Maybe all I ever was to her was the role I played. And that was fine. That was the deal, after all.
West clapped me on the shoulder as he stood. “Come on, man. At least grab some food with us. You can't go home to an empty house after a win like this.”
“I’m good.” I slung my bag over my shoulder.
“Sawyer—”
