I sit and unstrap the armor piece by piece and lay it out in front of me in perfect symmetry. Left pad. Right pad. Blocker. Glove. Helmet. Everything in its place, edges aligned. I take the towel from my bag. The one I only use for gear.
Helmet first. I wipe the inside padding, then the cage, polishing until the metal catches the weak light and throws back a warped reflection I don’t bother to look at for more than half a second.
Then the pads. Every buckle, every strap. My hands move on autopilot, checking for frayed stitching, worn leather, anything that might give. It’s not cleaning. It’s interrogation.
Is this going to fail me?
Is there any weakness I haven’t controlled yet?
The cage isn’t just steel on my face. It’s everything. My name. My father. Beatrice. The ring box waiting like a landmine. The way Addison looked on Monday.
“She needs quiet. She needs consistency.”
His words echo. A command I broke the minute I put my hand on Rylan's throat. A command I keep breaking every time I seek her out.
When the last strap lies flat and clean, the gear looks right. It belongs to someone who owns the net.
It’s not enough. The anger is still riding low, a quiet, coiled thing. I need a different kind of hurt.
I head to the gym.
The weight room is its own kind of assault. Too bright, music too loud, bass jumping in my ribs in a rhythm I didn’t choose. The air is thick with sweat and rubber and cheap body spray.
Rylan’s voice slices through it, grating and smug, like a dull knife on metal. He’s at the cable machine, talking too loud at Calder, laugh catching on the edges where my hand bruised his throat.
“—Coach is just making a point,” he rasps, bitterness leaking through the bravado. “Whatever. I give it a week before he realizes the third line is garbage without me.”
He sees me come in.
His voice stutters. The weight stack clanks down. His eyes flick to mine and away fast, like he touched a hot stove.
Good.
I walk past without breaking stride, giving a short nod to Gio and Adrian at the squat rack. Dante and Cole are trading sets at the bench. The room shifts around me, small glances, conversations hitching and rerouting. The team has already taken its sides; nobody says it out loud. They don’t have to.
I drop my bag by an empty bench, chalk my hands. Powder dusts the tape on my knuckles, turning the bruises ghost-white.
Adrian finishes a set with Dante, reracks the bar, and heads over, grabbing his water bottle.
“He made us sit through another speech before the game yesterday,” he says without preamble, sweat still running down his neck. “Locker room culture. Respect. Boundaries. Hour of my life I’m never getting back.”
“Coach?” I ask, even though I already know.
“Who else?” Adrian snorts. “Said it starts with the captain, which is his way of saying if Rylan breathes wrong again I’m the one who answers for it.”
Gio racks his bar a little harder than necessary. “Rylan should be the one answering for it. He’s lucky he’s only scratched.”
“He knows it,” Cole says quietly, stripping a plate off his side. “You heard him. He’s posturing. He knows Coach doesn’t trust him anymore.”
Dante snorts. “Lucky that’s all he lost.” His gaze cuts to me, steady. “You were solid last night. That’s what matters.”
Adrian’s expression sobers. “Coach didn’t have a choice. Donors would have rioted if Reid sat another game. But he meant what he said in his office. One more outburst and he’s done. His words, not mine.”
Rylan’s laugh spikes behind us, too loud, too forced.
“You heard what the old man said,” Gio mutters under his breath, eyes on the bar. “They used the wordprovokedin that meeting, Declan. Out loud. In front of admin. That’s more protection than most guys get.”
The word sits heavy in my chest.
