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“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.