He shrugs. “I know when I’m spiraling. You’re pretending this is discipline.”
Marco crosses his arms. “It’s obsession.”
The word lands harder than I expect. I grab my towel and wipe my face, buying myself a second. “We’re flying out tomorrow,” I say instead. “You want me distracted?”
“No,” Marco says. “We want you alive.”
Coach blows the whistle again, sharper this time. “That’s it. Everyone off the floor.”
I don’t argue. I don’t have the energy to push back right now.
As I walk toward the bench, I can feel it—the way my body is wound too tight, like if I stop moving completely, something bad might rush in to fill the space. I sit, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor while my heart rate comes down inch by inch.
We’re doing well this season. Better than well. The kind of well that makes analysts start sayingifinstead ofmaybe. The kind of well that brings pressure and expectations and the quiet hum ofdon’t fuck this up.
I like that part. It gives me something to hold on to.
“Ollie,” Marco says again, softer now. He sits beside me, shoulder bumping mine. “You really okay?”
I nod. It’s a lie, but it’s a small one. The kind people accept because it’s easier than digging.
Dan lingers nearby, watching us like he’s debating whether to step in. Eventually, he just shakes his head and grabs his bag. “Text me if you’re losing your mind,” he says.
I huff a breath that might almost be a laugh. “I always am.”
He doesn’t smile. That should bother me more than it does.
After practice, the locker room is loud in the usual way—banter, music, the slap of towels, the hiss of showers turning on. I move through it on autopilot. Shoes off. Gear packed. Phone checked.
No missed calls, but one text from Rafe.
Rafe: You coming by tonight?
My chest constricts, just a little.
Me: Yeah. After practice. Just washing up.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Rafe: Gates will be open. Robyn’s on tonight.
That tells me more than he probably intends. Robyn means serious. Robyn means something spooked them recently. Robyn means no surprises.
I type back a thumbs-up and shove my phone into my bag before I can overthink it.
A month ago, I thought space might help. That distance would give us breathing room. That if Rafe moved back to the house with the guys, we’d find some rhythm that didn’t constantly rub against my fear.
Instead, everything feels off-kilter.
We still see each other. We’re not broken. But we’re… altered.
Rafe doesn’t come to my place anymore. Not really. Sometimes he’ll stop by with one of the guys in tow—Miles or Drew, usually—and they’ll hang out, PlayStation controllers in hand, noise filling the space so it doesn’t feel too intimate. Sometimes Rafe stays the night, but only when it makes logistical sense. Only when there’s cover.
At the house, it’s the same in reverse. I’m not sneaking in, but I’m not exactly walking through the front door like I belong there either. Someone always knows I’m coming. Someone always adjusts.
The guys go out of their way for us.
Too much.
