“Lock in,” I muttered to myself, shaking it off and dropping back into position.
Oliver didn’t say anything during practice. He never did when things were live. He waited until Booth blew the horn and we were walking off, legs heavy, pads clanking, sweat dripping into eyes. He shoved a towel at my chest without looking at me.
“You’re quiet today,” he said. “More than normal.”
“I’m fine,” I replied automatically, wiping my face and trying not to sound like I was lying.
He glanced over then, eyebrows lifting. “Whoa. That bad, huh? Miles okay?”
“He’s good,” I said, exhaling. “Just didn’t sleep much.”
Oliver shook his head. “Nah. That’s not it.”
I didn’t argue. There was no point in pretending with him.
The locker room buzzed like it always did—music thumping, guys talking over each other, cleats hitting concrete. Quinn was already holding court, loud as hell, Jordan chirping back at him from two lockers down. Someone threw a roll of tape that bounced off a bench. Normal noise. Normal day. Except everything felt a little too sharp around the edges.
“Hey, Abbott,” Quinn called, grinning. “Your girl’s killing it upstairs. Bea says the brand floor won’t shut up about her.”
My stomach tightened before I could stop it.
“She’s not—” I caught myself, jaw flexing. “Yeah. She’s good at what she does.”
“No doubt,” Quinn said, shrugging as he peeled off his shirt. “I was texting with her, and she said something about her apartment maybe getting fixed faster than expected. Insurance doing insurance things, I guess.”
The words hit wrong. Too casual. Too easy.
My gut dropped, fast and sharp, like I’d misjudged a step. I didn’t respond right away, and Jordan glanced over, brow furrowing.
“You good, man?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just tired.”
But my phone was already in my hand.
Nothing. No missed calls. No texts. The blank screen felt heavier than bad news would’ve. If she was dealing with apartment stuff and hadn’t looped me in—if she thought she had to handle it alone again—that sat wrong in my chest. Why would Quinn know? Did that mean she was moving out faster? Sooner? Why didn’t she tell me?
Fuck.Focus.Football first.
Later, in the training room, things finally slowed down. The noise from the locker room dulled, replaced by the hum of machines and low voices. I stretched on the table, muscles screaming as I leaned into it, trying to work the tightness out of my hips.
Oliver dropped onto the table next to me, elbows on his knees. “You look like you’re waiting for someone to hit you,” he said. “What the hell is going on? Your parents again?”
I stared at the floor for a second too long, shaking my head. “I…I can’t lose Em.”
He nodded once. “That simple?”
“Yeah.”
“Then stop acting like you already have. She’s living with you, yeah?”
I swallowed, heat creeping up my neck. “I’ve been the friend my whole life. The safe guy. The one people trust but don’t choose. Now I’ve got a kid, my parents breathing down my neck, and a life that’s complicated as hell.”
“Coming from the guy who slept with the team doctor, there are always gonna be reasons or excuses tonotdo something. If you focus on those excuses, you’ll never be happy. Do it anyway, my dude. High risk, high reward.”
“Yeah but?—”
“No. There’s no but there.” He clapped my shoulder. “Plus, you’re not focused, and I think you need to get laid. Colts are coming for us, and I need you ready to fucking go at the game.”
