I woke up with a weight behind my eyes and a hollow ache in my chest. Not pain exactly, just… emptiness. Like I’d run ten emotional marathons in one night and still hadn’t crossed a finish line.
The light leaking through the curtains told me it was morning. My body told me it was still night. Everything felt slow, heavy. Like even gravity was tired of me.
Kieren’s voice echoed somewhere in my head. Not the angry part—though that lived under my skin now, sharp and raw—but the quiet, steady parts. “You want me to back off? Say it.”
I hadn’t.
But I hadn’t said anything else, either.
The moment I sat up, the urge to cry hit me like a sucker punch. I didn’t let it land. I never did. Instead, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and reached for the only armor I had left.
My laptop.
Work. Numbers. Tasks. Noise.
Within minutes, I was knee-deep in spreadsheets—roster stats, game attendance projections, financial reconciliations. I scheduled a week’s worth of press appearances and revised two media statements without blinking. Half an hour later, I was writing a revised talking point doc for the upcoming All-Star weekend.
It was easier this way. Easier than thinking.
I ignored the email notifications piling up. Mute. Archive. Reply later.
My phone buzzed once. Then again.
I didn’t check it.
Could’ve been Kieren. Could’ve been PR. Could’ve been Tom or Nora or someone who noticed I hadn’t sent my usual game-day review.
I didn’t care. Or I pretended I didn’t. Which was close enough.
I told myself I was just tired. That this was nothing a venti iced coffee and six hours of hyper-productivity couldn’t fix.
But somewhere in the back of my mind, beneath the formulas and email drafts and the playlist I had on loop, was the memory of his expression. Of the way he’d looked at me like I was the one thing he couldn’t figure out how to win.
And the worst part?
I didn’t know if I wanted him to stop trying.
The FaceTime rang twice before I realized it wasn’t another Slack notification.
Nora.
I stared at the screen for a second too long, debating. Decline and she’d just call again. Answer and I’d have to… talk. Or pretend to.
I swiped.
Her face popped up instantly—fresh-faced, hair in a messy bun, hoodie that probably cost more than my rent. She was curled up on her couch like it was a throne, one brow already arched in suspicion.
“Working,” I said before she could speak.
“You always are,” she replied. “And you’re lying.”
I turned the camera away, letting her stare at the ceiling instead of the dark circles under my eyes. “I’ve got three press releases to draft and a conference call with the league tomorrow. Not really in the mood for a wellness check.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She sipped from a mug shaped like a cat’s face. “And is avoiding Kieren part of the job now, or did I miss that memo?”
I stilled. “I’m not?—”
“Daphne.” Her voice softened, but the edge was still there. “I saw the game highlights. I read the post-game coverage. Kieren looked like he was going to commit a felony in the locker room, and Theo’s smile didn’t even pretend to be real. You were nowhere after that, and it’s been, like, three days. What happened?”
