“So,” Jax says, stretching the word out like gum. “We doing the thing where nobody mentions that kiss that was trending at number one for the last two days?”
I choke.
Water sprays down my chin as I cough, twisting away.
Devon hands me a towel without comment.
I wipe my face, scowl at Jax. “It was PR. Relax.”
Jax laughs outright. “My guy. That was not PR.”
I glare at him.
“That was ‘I’m one bad day away from punching a wall because I like her too much,’” he continues cheerfully. “Completely different category.”
I stiffen. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hunter finally speaks. Quiet. Measured. “Something’s eating at you.”
I don’t answer.
He doesn’t push. Just holds my gaze. The silence stretches.
Devon shrugs slightly. “You don’t have to tell us. But you’re carrying it. And it shows.”
“Drop it.” I squeeze my bottle, filling my mouth for a drink.
They exchange looks.
Not smug. Not teasing.
Concerned.
“Alright,” Jax says eventually, rolling to his feet. “But for the record? Nobody looks like that over something fake.”
I stand too, helmet tucked under my arm.
They let it go. Because they’re good teammates. Because they know when to back off.
But as we jog back toward the line, I can feel their eyes on me.
And I hate that they can see it.
I lock my focus forward and set my stance.
Whatever this is, I’ll carry it alone.
I always do.
Coach blows the whistle and calls us back into formation.
I welcome the movement. The order. The chance to outrun my own head.
I don’t ease into the next drill. I attack it.
Hand down. Snap. Explode off the line. I drive my shoulder into the defender, feel the jolt travel up my arm, then peel off hard into my route. Cut. Turn. Catch.
Clean.
