I want to crawl into a hole. I want to dissolve into the tile beneath my feet, to become nothing more than steam and soapand the echo of running water. I want to rewind the last hour and swallow my fists whole before they ever leave my body.
Instead, I pull my hoodie up, cap low, and walk out of the locker room like I’m made of glass.
The hallway outside is busy. Staff, security, media people hovering at the edges like vultures who know there’s blood in the water. I keep my head down and move fast, my duffel heavy on my shoulder, my face throbbing with every heartbeat.
My eye is already swelling. I can feel it, the tightness under my skin. By tomorrow it will be purple and ugly.
Tomorrow I’m supposed to meet Rafe’s parents.
I swallow hard and keep walking. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out with shaking fingers. A text from Rafe.
Rafe: Where are you?
The question makes my stomach turn. He knows something’s wrong. Of course he does.
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering. The urge to lie rises instinctively, automatic as breathing, but the thought of trying to smooth this over in text makes me feel sick.
Me: Leaving locker room. Need to see you. Quick.
Three dots appear immediately.
Rafe: Are you okay?
I almost laugh. The answer is so obviously no.
Me: Just… find me by the tunnel. Please.
A beat follows.
Rafe: On my way.
I shove my phone back into my pocket and keep moving.
The tunnel is a dim corridor off the main concourse, the kind of place that smells like concrete and stale popcorn, where the noise of the arena muffles into a distant roar. I stop near a support pillar and press my shoulder against it, breathing carefully.
My body is exhausted. My brain is screaming. Shame crawls up my throat like acid.
I did that. I did that with my own hands.
A month ago, I could barely breathe when Rafe mentioned security coordinating with my life. Tonight, I threw a punch in a locker room like I was someone I don’t recognize.
The sound of footsteps approaches, and I look up.
Rafe appears around the corner, and I swear my heart knocks against my chest at the sight of him. He’s still in his cap and sunglasses, hoodie pulled up, face serious. Vinny flanks him at a respectful distance—his security.
Rafe sees me and stops dead. His gaze locks on my face, on my eye. His mouth parts slightly. “Oh my God,” he says, voice dropping. “Ollie.” He takes a step toward me, hand lifting instinctively like he’s going to touch my cheek.
I flinch. It happens before I can stop it. A sharp recoil, my shoulder jerking back, my body twisting away like contact is going to ignite something I can’t control.
Rafe freezes. His hand hangs in the air for a beat too long before he slowly drops it. Offense flashes across his face first. Hurt, then confusion, then something guarded. “Ollie,” he says again, quieter now. “What the hell?”
“I’m fine,” I blurt.
It’s a stupid reflex. The same one that got me in this mess. The same one that insists everything can be handled if I just keep moving.
Rafe’s jaw tightens. “You’re not fine.”
I swallow hard, staring at the concrete. “I didn’t mean?—”
