“You good?” I asked, and my voice came out strange. Too high. Too tight.
“Yeah.” He wasn’t looking at me anymore. “I’m good.”
“I should—” I gestured at nothing. “I need to get ready. Game tonight.”
“Right. The game.”
I practically ran to my room.
I closed the door behind me and stood with my back against it, my heart hammering like I’d just finished bag skates.
What the hell was that?
My hands were still shaking. I pulled them from my pockets and stared at them like they belonged to someone else. They’d been touching Marco seconds ago—steadying him, pulling him up, feeling the solid warmth of him—and now they were trembling.
When he’d been close—right there, his face inches frommine, his breath warm against my skin— panic and want had twisted in my chest. Sharp and confusing, warring with each other, making me want to pull him closer and shove him away at the same time. I didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand the way my pulse had spiked when I’d looked into his eyes. Why I’d jerked back like he’d burned me, and I’d practically thrown him at the couch just to get distance between us.
He was my friend. My best friend. And I was acting like… like what? Like I was afraid of him? That didn’t make sense.
I pushed off the door and moved to my closet, pulling out my game day clothes with more force than necessary. My hands were still unsteady.
This was stupid. I was being stupid. Marco needed help and I was making it weird, making it awkward, because of some momentary… what? Panic? Discomfort?
I didn’t even know what to call it.
All I knew was that standing that close to him had felt different than it should have. Had felt like something I needed to escape from before I did something I couldn’t take back.
Though what that something was, I couldn’t begin to explain.
My phone buzzed. Team group chat—someone posting about tonight’s game, some joke about Tampa’s goalie.
The game. Right. I had a game in three hours.
I needed to focus. Needed to get my head together, push all this confusion aside, and do my job.
I could figure out my crisis later. After we beat Tampa. After I got some distance from Marco and could think clearly.
I dressed in a sweater and chinos—the league had relaxedthe rules on game-day suits—and grabbed my duffel bag. I tried to get myself into the right headspace.
But every time I closed my eyes, I saw Marco’s face inches from mine. Saw the way his eyes had darkened. Saw the moment I’d almost?—
No. Not thinking about it.
I had to go downstairs eventually. Had to say goodbye before heading to the arena.
Marco was settled on the couch, his expression a mask. We didn’t look at each other.
“I called my personal trainer,” he said quietly. “He’s coming tomorrow to help me work out in my home gym. He can handle the PT exercises from now on.”
My chest twisted with guilt, maybe. Or relief. I couldn’t tell. “You don’t have to do that. I can still?—”
“It’s fine.” He cut me off. “He knows what he’s doing. It makes more sense.”
“Right.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. “That’s probably better anyway.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.
I stood there awkwardly, feeling like I should say something, apologize for something, explain something I didn’t understand myself. But the words wouldn’t come.
