He gives me a tentative smile. “Should I just meet you over there?”
“Sure, that would be great. You’re not heading over alone, are you?” I ask him, looking around to see if I can find Danny or Jase.
“Yeah, Danny said he was going to head over in a while. Give Mac a bit of space. I thought you might want it too,” he admits.
“I really could. Thanks, Ash. I’ll see you over there in a little while. Sorry about the game,” I say, getting ready to turn and head into the tunnel that leads to the locker room.
“Me too, kiddo. But I know you did the best that you could,” Ash calls to my retreating form.
I turn and smile to him. It’s forced but hopefully, he’s too far away to tell. Then I continue toward the locker room. I pass by the team room and hear Watts is still in there talking to the team. I sigh. I have to go in there, but I don’t want to.
“Come on, Hendrix, open the door and get in there,” a voice calls out behind me.
I turn around and see Coach Andie standing there. “I was going to go in,” I lie.
“Uh-huh, that’s why I’m rounding up stragglers,” she says, shooting me a warm smile. “Relax, he’s not going to yell. We’re going to learn from this.”
I nod, slowly opening the door and finding a spot along the wall. I listen to Watts say the same things that Jase did and even Coach Andie when she found me in the hallway. She’s not wrong; he’s not yelling. He’s talking about how we are going to learn from this and use it to our advantage. Sure, Portland beatus before but not this badly. We just need to learn from it. And on and on he goes. Jase takes a turn talking too, repeating the same message.
We all come together and chant Blaze on three before breaking. I move toward the locker room with the rest of the team, but instead of getting a shower right away, I slump down on the bench and put my head in my hands. Thankfully, my teammates and my friends know enough to keep their distance from me. The only one who stops to say goodbye on her way out is Mac.
“I’m going to head over to the Backwoods. Are you coming?” she asks.
I look up and see there’s no smile on her face. Her blue eyes, usually full of light, are sad. She’s feeling it too. “Yeah, I’ll be over in a bit. Danny took Ash over there for me. Thank him for me, will you?”
She nods. “I will.” She turns to leave but stops herself. “We’ll figure this out, Hen. We have to.”
“I know we will, Mac. Thanks,” I tell her. “I’m gonna grab a shower.”
“See you in a bit.” With that, she’s gone.
I rise and look around the locker room and see that thankfully, I am alone in here. Grabbing my shower caddy, I head into the showers to take a long hot shower. When I let the tears fall, my sobs fill the empty shower area. When my body is red and I’m all cried out, I make my way back to my locker, where I dry off and slowly start to dress. Leaving the towel covering my breasts, I slide on my underwear and a pair of athletic shorts.
I’ve never felt so low in my life. Or less like a professional and more like a girl who is playing dress-up. I let five goals fall into the back of that net and I didn’t even touch one of them. How in the hell do I belong here?
I hear the locker room door squeak as it opens, made apparent by the silence of the room. I hear shoes clicking across the floor. I would recognize the sound of those dress shoes anywhere. August Cromwell is the only one in this building who wears them. Everyone else in here wears sneakers or slides. But not August.
Of course he’d come here now. After I had the worst game of my season. After I cried myself hoarse in the shower, trying to cry out the shame.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” I say, my voice flat.
“I own the building,” he replies. Calm. Controlled. Like he hasn’t shattered my world before and managed to walk away from me.
Not turning to face him, I lower the towel so that he has a view of my bare back. “Please go.”
But he doesn’t. I can feel him behind me. He moves in closer. Close enough that my skin prickles with goosebumps. My body remembers him. It hasn’t been that long since he’s had his hands on it. I hate that I wish his hands were on me right now.
“You played angry tonight. I never saw you yelling at defenders the way you were tonight,” he tells me. “I could see your face in the cameras from the box. So much anger.”
My laugh comes out bitter and sharp. “Maybe I was imagining that I was yelling at you.”
Silence. Then the sound of his footsteps—measured, deliberate. He stops and I can tell he’s right behind me. I can smell him now. He smells of cedar, sweat and memories.
“Fine, yell at me all you want. Just talk to me.” His voice comes out soft and steady. “Haven’t I let you treat me like complete and utter shit for months? I’ve let you challenge me and curse me out in front of how many team members and staff? So why would I give a shit if you are yelling at me in the middle of the field during a game.”
I turn fast, my anger rising like a tide. “You deserve every insult, and the way I’ve treated you.”
His jaw flexes. That same jaw that I used to kiss when he was too proud to say he was sorry. That same mouth that used to whisper my name like a promise.
