I pick up my phone, turn it over, and see no new message. He's gone silent for now.
I pick up my latte, now lukewarm and take a long, defiant sip. The bitterness fills my mouth. She doesn’t get the full scope, but she has my back. And that, surprisingly, makes me feel a little less alone. But this time, being on my own feels less like isolation and more like a declaration of war. He wants to play? Fine. I'll play.
Ten
West
The adrenaline from the game still thrums under my skin with a familiar, welcome fire. Three goals. A hat trick. The crowd had been electric, the win absolute but none of it mattered. Not really.
There was only one person in that arena I was playing for. I knew she would be there.
I sit in the echoing quiet of the locker room, the last one to leave. The scent of sweat and victory hangs in the air. I leanback, replaying the final goal. The weight of the puck on my stick, the roar of the crowd fading to a dull hum, my entire world narrowing to a single point: the top corner of the net. I knew she was watching. I could feel her eyes on me. That goal wasn't for the team. It wasn't for the fans throwing their hats onto the ice. It was a signal flare, aimed directly at her seat. A demonstration.This is what I am capable of. This power, this control, this victory... it is all for you to see.
Seeing her face when I found her in the crowd was the real victory. The flicker of panic, the shock, the way she was pinned to her seat by my gaze alone. That was better than the roar of the crowd. Better than the win.
And now, the ping of my phone. The aftershock. The part of the game that continues long after the ice has melted.
Kinsley.
Kinsley:
Don’t text me again.
A low chuckle rumbles in my chest. The little soldier is trying to draw a line in the sand. I like it. It’s predictable. It’s also futile.
Me:
Why not?
Her reply is almost instantaneous. The fire in her is a constant, blazing thing.
Kinsley:
Because I told you not to.
I lean back against the cold metal locker, a slow smile spreading across my face. She’s so transparent. So beautifully, defiantly transparent. She thinks she has power here. She thinks she can dictate terms after I just bent the world to my will for her.
Me:
You don’t get to tell me what to do, Kinsley.
I hit send and I watch the three dots appear, then vanish. Then reappear. Then vanish again. She’s typing, she’s hesitating, she’s fighting herself. The internal battle must be raging.
Finally, her reply comes. It’s longer this time. More measured.
Kinsley:
I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Stop texting me. If you have something to say, say it in class. Or in an email. Through official channels. Otherwise, leave me alone.
I read it twice. My smile widens.Official channels.She’s trying to use the rules. The very rules I’ve already bent to my will. It’s almost endearing. Almost.
The three dots appear again. She’s waiting, expecting a response, expecting me to argue. To push.
I put my phone back in my bag without replying.
The silence is a weapon. It’s a void, it’s a question mark. It’s everything she hates. She wants control. She wants a definitive answer.
I’m not going to give it to her. Not yet.
