I didn’t wait for the team bus.
I called a rideshare and took off alone, heading straight to the hotel without a word to anyone.
I needed out.
Out of the stadium.
Out of that locker room.
Out of my own skin, if I could’ve managed it.
Because if I stayed, I was going to do something I’d regret.
And right now?
I already regretted not hitting him harder.
The hotel room was dim, curtains drawn. The only light came from the blinking red on the smoke detector and the soft, unwelcome glow of my phone screen lighting up every few seconds on the nightstand.
I didn’t turn on the TV.
The loss was already playing on repeat behind my eyes—Troy’s lazy backpass, the snap of the net as the second goal slammed in, the camera flash when I shoved him into the lockers. My pulse still hadn’t settled, jaw sore from clenching, shoulders tight from holding in everything I didn’t say.
My phone buzzed again. Group chat.
Beckett: Media already picked it up.
Adam: PR’s gonna talk to coach. Just chill.
Troy, of course, hadn’t said a word. Not even to own up.
Notifications piled in: press alerts, Twitter tags, screenshots of the locker room scuffle mid-shove. They’d blurred out our faces, but it was obvious. I didn’t need audio to know how pissed I looked.
What if this tanks everything?
What if this—this one game, this one bad night—derails the entire thing?
The draft scouts. The brand meetings. The “future of American soccer” interviews.
All of it, slipping through my fingers like sand because some idiot couldn’t hold his line and I couldn’t keep my temper.
I poured a drink from the minibar—top shelf scotch, overpriced, and probably meant for victory toasts.
I didn’t touch it.
Just stared at the glass, condensation slipping down the sides like it was mocking me.
I sank into the armchair, elbows on knees, fingers interlocked behind my neck. My head throbbed. My chest ached. And no amount of pacing or breathing or punching a pillow made it go away.
I had worked too hard. Lost too much. Sacrificed every damn thing that didn’t fit between practices and painkillers and late-night drills.
And for what?
A “chill bro” and a camera flash.
My phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t the group chat.
Soft knock at the door.
