My phone vibrates in my hand.
A message from Annabelle.
He’s looking for you.
Four words.
My stomach drops like I'm on a rollercoaster.
This is the moment.
I tuck my phone away and keep walking before I can talk myself out of it.
The hallway opens into a quieter stretch near the equipment tunnel. The air is cooler here, sharper. My pulse starts to slow, not because I’m calm, but because my body knows what’s coming and I’m feeling numb.
He’s there.
Leaning against the wall, jersey already off, hair damp, shoulders loose in that post-game way that tells me the adrenaline has crashed and left everything exposed.
He looks tired.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
When he lifts his head and sees me, something changes in his expression. Not anger. Not relief.
Recognition.
Like he’s been bracing for this too.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
There’s no music anymore. No crowd. No cameras.
Just breathing.
“I didn’t expect you to do that,” I say.
My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
He huffs a quiet breath. “Neither did I.”
That’s it.
That’s all it takes to crack the night open.
We stand there, a few feet apart, the space between us filled with everything we haven’t said. His expression tightens like he’s holding something back. I recognize the restraint immediately.
It’s the same kind I use.
I step closer.
Not to touch him.
Just to stay.
“I’m not here to explain,” I say. “Or defend myself.”
