Gosh.
That should’ve made me feel better. Like he was backing off. Like I still had control of this narrative.
But it didn’t.
It made my stomach flip and my thoughts spiral and my pulse beat a little too fast in my throat.
I didn’t know what I felt. Not exactly.
But I knew standing here—so close I could see the sweat drying on his neck, the tiny scar above his brow, the way his fingers twitched like he wasn’t done fighting—I was about three seconds from doing something stupid.
So I turned.
Walked back toward the bleachers before I said something I’d regret.
Before he said something I couldn’t write off.
My steps echoed sharper now.
Each one fueled by adrenaline and confusion and a very real, very inconvenient truth.
I was glad he punched that guy.
That was the problem.
I’d just reached the tunnel’s edge when I looked down at the cup still in my hand. The coffee I’d brought this morning with all the naïve hope of staying neutral.
Now cold. Spilled.
“Dammit,” I muttered, half under my breath. “I liked that coffee.”
Chapter 6
Kieren
The locker room still smelled like sweat, blood, and cheap disinfectant. I sat on the edge of the bench, hunched forward, a half-empty water bottle on the floor between my feet and a bag of ice pressed against my knuckles. My pulse had slowed, but that coil of heat in my chest? Still there. Still tight.
I didn’t regret it.
Not the shove. Not the threat. Not even the chaos that followed.
Guy had it coming.
He got too close to her. Smirking. Breathing her air like he had the right.
And maybe I should’ve walked away. Should’ve kept my cool like Coach kept begging me to do.
But I didn’t.
My phone buzzed on the bench beside me. Cameron.
Conference Room 2. Now. Bring ice for your jaw—just in case.
I grunted, wiped sweat from the back of my neck, and yanked a sweatshirt over my gear. No time to shower. No point.
I wasn’t walking into a meeting.
I was walking into a reckoning.
