Too hot. Too loud. Too many people watching. Someone touched my elbow, and I moved before I thought, stepping back hard enough that Vanessa glanced at me.
“You okay?” she asked under her breath.
“Yeah. Need water.”
“After this?”
“Now.”
I hated how clipped it came out.
Her face tightened, not angry exactly, more disappointed. She covered it fast for the cameras. “Okay. One minute.”
I got through the photo. Barely.
Then I left.
Not dramatically. I didn’t storm out or knock over a display of seventy-dollar hats. I walked down the hallway past the bathrooms, past a staff door, and out through an exit that dumped me into a narrow service area behind the venue. Cold air hit my face. Denver night, dry and sharp. I braced my hands on my knees and breathed until the buzzing under my skin loosened its grip by half an inch.
My phone was in my hand before I decided to take it out.
Roman’s name sat near the top of my messages.
I almost tapped it. He’d answer. He’d call me a dumbass and ask if I’d eaten and tell me to leave before I combusted. He was good at that. He’d been doing it for years.
Instead, I opened the thread with Coach Reid.
That was a bad idea.
So obviously I did it.
Coach, if this runs late, does missing recovery tomorrow screw the schedule? I’m still coming. Asking before it becomes someone else’s problem.
I stared at the message after I sent it and immediately wanted to throw my phone into traffic.
It wasn’t emotional. It was practical. Recovery mattered. Schedules mattered. He had said to communicate earlyif something was going to become a problem. I was communicating. Like a professional. Like a person who did not need one specific man’s voice in his head to tell him where the edges were.
Three dots appeared.
Then his reply.
No. Recovery stays. Leave by 10:30. Eat before you sleep. Be on time tomorrow.
I read it once.
Then again.
Leave by 10:30. Eat. Be on time.
No sympathy. No why are you texting me from a brand event. No long paragraph about stress or coping or whatever. Just a line drawn cleanly through the night.
My breathing changed before I noticed.
The hallway stopped spinning out into twenty-seven tasks. There was a next thing. Then another. Then another.
Leave by 10:30.
Eat.
