Me: No, and I don’t know.
Milton: Tell them you’re charging interview fees. Gotta profit off the chaos, B.
Milton: I saw the physical therapist we use. He was very confident that I need six months of immobilization and a complete pause on training. Ambitious advice, considering it was a puck to the wrist. He may be a doctor of physical therapy, but he’s not an actual medical doctor.
Me: I know someone who can maybe take a look at you. Let me talk to her.
Milton: Awwwwe, thanks B. See Lincoln, she loves me more. I’ll be the favorite in the pack.
The tension in my body lessens as I chat with the two of them. Milton trying to lighten the mood helps me to calm.
Lincoln: Ignore him; he's obviously going senile. We know I’m the main man in your life. As for the team. They don’t deserve any of your time. But I don’t like your brother’s teammates treating you like that. Are you going to tell him?
Me: No.
Lincoln: Either you do or I will.
Is this even real? The two of them are trying—God, they’re trying so hard to take care of me. To make me feel important, cared for, and wanted. The way they’re checking in on me, making sure that I’m okay.
But the person I keep circling back to, like a storm I can’t outrun, is Korbin.
I picture him opening his phone to the same headlines. The comments. The speculation. What he must be thinking. Lincoln is his brother, and I’ve just caused a shitstorm for being on a date with him.
Then I see Benton, his jaw tight, fury unmistakable. He’d be pissed if he knew the rookie cornered me today. This is his team, and I’ve made a joke out of him. No wonder he’s pissed at me.
If my brother is furious, then Korbin must be burning alive with it. I know he had to defend his brother yesterday. I can only imagine, even though he didn’t sound pissed at me in the text, that he must be.
Then there’s Lincoln. Would he even tell me if this was bothering him? Because being seen with me means he’s paying a price I don’t want him to pay.
I wonder what kind of heat he’s taking. What Korbin said to him when he saw the pictures.
We talk for a little more and then I tell them I need to get some work done.
By lunch, I’ve finished getting all the shots I need. All I want to do is go home and hide in my room forever. My mind is spiraling from all the looks the team’s been giving me all day. How they looked at Benton. The anger in his face. How he’s barely holding it together.
I’m emotionally spent, stretched thin. Every huddled whisper I can’t hear is another hand closing around my ribs and squeezing. My appetite is gone—food feels like a foreign language I’ve forgotten how to understand.
I sit in the far corner of the break room, phone in my hand, leg bouncing restlessly.
Finally, I type into the group chat, fingers trembling.
Me: I need a distraction.
It takes six seconds before Lincoln answers.
Lincoln: I know just the way to distract you. How much longer are you going to be at work?
Me: I can leave whenever. I got enough shots today to do what I need.
Lincoln: Let me get changed and I’ll pick you up at home. Let’s say an hour.
Just like that, something in my chest shifts—not enough to vanish, but enough to ease the tight, suffocating ache.
For the first time today, I feel oxygen move all the way down into my lungs. Not clean, not perfect, but real.
And it hits me:
I’m not okay.
