The second I cross into the tiled hallway, noise slams into me like a freight train.
Voices rising, cameras flashing, bodies shifting too close together in a mass that has no business being here.
Reporters. Dozens of them.
My stomach clenches, that old instinct flaring hot and immediate—find the danger, find the exit.But retreating now would only make it worse.
A microphone is shoved into my face before I've even fully entered the room.
"Cam! Cam, do you have a comment on the allegation that came out this morning?"
"Were you aware she hired a lawyer?"
"Is it true you pressured her after the charity event?"
"Cam, look here. Just one statement!"
The questions overlap, rapid-fire and sharp as thrown stones. I don't answer. Don't blink. Don't give them anything.
My jaw locks tight enough to ache as I force a path through the chaos, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the far wall. My breath burns in my chest.
The lie at the center of all this—the accusation that makes me feel dirty no matter how innocent I am—sits like a fist in my throat.
I just need to get to my locker. Need space. Need quiet.
But in this moment, I'm not an athlete.
I'm a story. A headline. A target.
***
Jax lounges on the bench like he's poolside in Malibu, arms behind his head, grin wide and entirely too relaxed for the storm raging ten feet away.
"Wow, Drake," he calls over the press noise. "You sure know how to throw a party."
His grin is meant to take the sting out, but I'm not in a joking mood.
I shoot him a glare that would melt lesser men. Jax just winks.
The team has learned to orbit my silence like satellites in varying stages of disaster. Some are helpful, some infuriating. Jax is firmly in the latter category, but at least he doesn't treat me like glass.
Coach Stenson storms through the crowd with all the grace of a bull, voice booming loud enough to silence even the most persistent reporter.
"Back it up! Everyone OUT unless you're authorized! This is a locker room, not a circus!"
His presence carves space around me, reporters scattering like leaves in a gust, but the damage is already done. The buzzing in my skull doesn't ease. The weight pressing against my ribs doesn't lift.
When the crowd finally thins, Ty—our rookie quarterback—jogs up, practically vibrating with nerves.
"Hey, uh… you okay? That looked rough."
His earnest eyes try to meet mine.
"Fine," I mutter.
One word. A lie. But it's all I can manage right now.
Ty nods slowly, clearly not convinced, but smart enough not to push. He claps my shoulder once—quick, awkward—and retreats to his own locker.
