It could be five minutes or an hour.
All I feel is the anger pulsing.
The fear trying to slip through the cracks.
And the realization that, for the first time in my career, I don't know if I’ll still have a place here next week.
It doesn’t depend on me.
Not on my talent, not on the games I won.
It depends on how many signatures get wiped off contracts.
How many companies decide my face no longer sells.
I close my eyes.
I see the lights of The Aureum again, the white feathers, her mouth sayingbang.
A moment.
Just a moment of real life.
And now… all of this.
I stand up.
My hands are itching to smash something.
Instead, I grab my duffel bag, sling it over my shoulder, and leave.
It’s raining outside, naturally.
The whole city seems designed to spit on you when you’re already down.
I get in the car, slam the door, and just sit there.
Rain on the windshield, wipers that can’t keep up.
My phone vibrates on the seat. Notifications, messages, missed calls. Surely many notifications are from Nate. But no, I’m not going to talk to him. I don’t want any more lectures, sermons, directives.
Everyone wants something from me.
I breathe.
I don’t answer anyone.
The anger pulses inside me, constant.
The coach wants apologies, the papers want blood, and I…
I don’t even know what thefuck I want.
I start the engine.
The headlights cut through the rain, the road ahead fading into the dark.
2
