He steps inside, cold air following him, a small bag of ice in his hand. He looks at me for a moment too long, brows pinched, like he knows something’s off.
“Everything good?”
“Perfect,” I lie.
He nods slowly, but doesn’t push. The sound of the fridge door opening fills the space.
When I glance toward the sink, a drop of water runs down the cabinet door—right where I hid the box. It trails slowly, like a shiver I can’t stop.
Chapter 16
Cracks in the Armor
Leo
My stick smacksthe bench with a harshcrackwhen it hits the bench. Not hard enough to break—though God knows I want to—but enough to turn heads. I mutter a curse under my breath and drop it at my feet, palms stinging.
Practice is over, but the noise in my head won’t quit. Every stride today felt like I was pushing through sludge, every drill just off by half a beat. I can feel the coaches watching, waiting for me to screw up again.
The locker room smells like sweat and rubber and frustration. I tug off my gear piece by piece, ignoring the chatter around me. Someone jokes about my “media fan club” and a few guys laugh, but it’s thin—the kind of laugh people use when they’re not sure if it’s safe.
I don’t even look up. I just shove my helmet into my bag and focus on the floor. The concrete’s safer than faces right now.
From the lounge, the sound of a sports show drifts in—loud enough for every word to cut clean.
“Leo Voss hasn’t been the same since the flood,” one panelist says. “Stats don’t lie—his production’s down twenty percent.”
Another voice chimes in. “Maybe Voss has other priorities these days.”
The laughter that follows hits harder than any cross-check.
A few guys glance at me. No one says anything, but they don’t have to. The silence is enough. I grab my towel, wipe my face, and tell myself it’s just noise. Just talk. It’s what they do.
Still, my chest burns.
Because they’re not wrong—not completely. My life’s been chaos since the flood. A new bed that’s not mine. New walls that don’t feel like home. And Sage—steady, kind, infuriatingly patient Sage—has become the only thing holding my balance in place.
Which makes the whispers sting even more.
I catch Gabe watching me from across the room. He nods once, like he’s telling me to let it roll off. I nod back, but the words echo anyway—other priorities.
They think I’m distracted. Weak.
I used to play through worse. Injuries. Breakups. Death in the family. I was the guy who thrived under pressure. But now every sound, every article, every damn question about my headspace feels like a puck ricocheting off bone.
I sit there long after the room empties out, tape bits stuck to my hands, sweat drying on my skin. The TV’s still droning, and my name flashes across the ticker at the bottom of the screen—another segment about my “decline.”
It’s almost funny, the way they talk like I’m already a headline instead of a person.
Almost.
I shove my gear into the bag and sling it over my shoulder, muscles tight and aching. As I leave the locker room, I can still hear the echo of that joke—maybe he’s got other priorities.
If they mean Sage, they’re right.
And that’s exactly what scares me.
The sun’s down by the time I pull into the parking lot. My hands are gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache. I sit there for a full minute, staring at the glow from the kitchen window. She’s moving around inside—light, easy, like she doesn’t feel the weight that’s sitting on my chest.
