I move late again.
But the truth is, my head's not in the game. Part of me is still in that penthouse hallway, standing outside her door, choosing not to knock.
By the time I reach the sideline, my lungs are burning.
I pace near the benches, helmet tucked under my arm.
The trainers pretend not to watch me.
My teammates give me space. The kind you give a man who’s vibrating too close to the edge.
Jax catches my eye from across the sideline. Raises his brows once. Then again, sharper this time. A silentYou good?
I don’t answer.
Ty stares a little too long, uncertainty written all over his face. Like he’s deciding whether to say something or wait until I implode.
The roar of the crowd swells and dips around us. I try to let it carry me. Let it drown out the images I don’t want.
Lila’s face in the penthouse.
The way her shoulders stiffened when I said, 'maybe that’s for the best'.
I told myself I was protecting her.
But all I really did was walk away first.
The whistle blows.
“Offense!” someone yells.
I swallow and pull my helmet on, jog back toward the huddle.
My legs feel like concrete.
I line up and stare straight ahead, forcing my breath into something steady. The quarterback calls the cadence. My body responds on autopilot, muscle memory carrying me where my head refuses to go.
But every step feels delayed.
Every movement feels like I’m chasing something already gone.
We finish the drive ugly.
When halftime finally hits, relief floods me so hard my knees almost buckle. I head toward the tunnel, eyes down, ready to disappear into the locker room and sit in the quiet until I can remember how to be a person again.
A hand clamps around my arm.
Heavy. Unavoidable.
I stop.
Jax.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at me like he's seeing through all my crap.
“What’s going on?” he asks finally.
I pull my arm free. “I’m just off today.”
