I took it.
The goalie never had a chance.
The lamp lit red. The horn blared. My teammates swarmed me, shouting congratulations I didn't process.
I scanned the crowd again.
The announcers were saying something—dangerous energy, probably, or fired up—but all I heard was the roar of my own pulse and the quiet, furious realization that Belle Reiss had made me look like a fool.
Not to the crowd.
To myself.
Because I'd actually believed she'd come.
Actually thought last night meant something.
That feeding her, bathing her, caring for her in ways I'd never cared for anyone had shifted something between us.
Apparently the fuck not.
The locker room stank of sweat and victory I couldn't taste.
Gear clattered. Bodies slumped onto benches. Voices rose in that post-game buzz that usually settled my nerves—tonight it scraped against my skull like sandpaper.
Hook stripped off his gloves first, that cocky smirk already forming before he opened his mouth. "Thought your girl was coming tonight, Belle-rose."
I didn't look up. Just worked my laces with mechanical precision.
Jafar leaned back against his locker, stretching like a cat. "Must've found something better to do."
My jaw tightened.
Scar's voice slithered in from across the room, all silky cruelty. "Maybe she's avoiding you."
The laughter that followed wasn't mean. Just the usual locker room bullshit. Guys testing boundaries, poking at the weakest point to see what happened.
They had no idea how weak that point actually was.
I yanked my shoulder pads off harder than necessary. The Velcro ripped loud in the sudden quiet.
Hades gave a low whistle, eyebrows raised. "You still look like you want to kill someone."
I pulled off my helmet without answering. Because he was right.
I did want to kill someone. Preferably whoever taught Belle Reiss she could refuse me without consequence.
"She sick or something?" Hook pressed, too stupid to read the room.
"Drop it," I said quietly.
Too quietly.
Gang Lu glanced up from his phone, dark eyes sharp. He knew that tone. Knew what it meant when my voice went flat and cold instead of rising.
Hook didn't. "I'm just saying, man—if my girl blew off a game after I told her to come?—"
"She's not your girl." The words came out measured. Deliberate. "And she didn't blow anything off. She made a choice."
