Something in the booth tightened. I watched the way their faces lit up, the way Logan nodded like it was inevitable. “Not surprised,” Logan said. “He’s got that golden-boy discipline. No off-field drama, no distractions.”
Adam snorted, waving a hand like it didn’t matter. “Yeah, guy’s practically married to his career. Didn’t even know he was dating anyone.”
The glass stopped halfway to my mouth. The whiskey sat there, waiting. My pulse skated somewhere between my ribs and my neck.
“What?” I asked, because the room had gone a little too loud.
Derek shrugged like it was nothing. “Kyle. Never brings anyone around. You’d think he sleeps at the gym.”
Logan added, quiet and flat, “That’s what it takes to get the call-up, I guess.”
It should’ve been nothing. A fact. A line in the gossip column. But the idea of Kyle wrapped up in the national setup like a medal — untouchable, immaculate — stuck in my chest like a stone.
Of course he didn’t bring anyone around, I thought, feeling my jaw go tight. Of course he kept everything tidy and neat and press-ready. Of course he was the kind of guy who built his life around schedules and peak times and photo ops.
Because the only person waiting on him is the one who shouldn’t have to.
It wasn’t fair he’d been the first to land those smiles in my head. It wasn’t fair that the one face that kept coming back whenever I should’ve been thinking about shape or angle or finishing was hers — Ellery, shoulders tired, hands moving like she’d been carved from stubbornness. The bit of her that waits. The bit I had no right to be thinking about, because I was supposed to be the problem, the headline, the one who wrecked things.
Adam watched me like he did when he was about to throw a grenade and run. “You good, man?”
“Yeah,” I lied. The word came out flat. Taste of whiskey and a little iron.
He didn’t buy it. “You sure? You look like you wanna kick someone’s teeth in.”
“Just thinking about practice,” I said, because that was safer. Because practice was an armor I knew how to wear.
But even as I said it, my mind was refusing to cooperate. Practice had me by the throat: reps, finishes, drills until my legs felt like cement. That part was true. But underneath it all was the smaller truth I’d been trying to bury — that when Kyle did whatever he did to earn scouts and call-ups, someone else held the spaces he left warm. Someone else brewed the coffees no one noticed, signed the invoices, made sure the kids’ kit didn’t fall off the truck. Someone I’d seen standing at the center of chaos like it was nothing. Someone I’d inched toward fixing a display board for, in case anyone asked.
Adam shifted, a grin that was actually sharp this time. “If she’s waiting, you better hope she’s worth it.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, because the stupid truth pushed through my ribs like it had a right to be there. I was suddenly furious at the image of Kyle being folded neatly into the national team’s calendar — scheduled dinners, scouts, protocols — while Ellery’s nights were made of unpaid tickets and second-hand patience.
Derek toasted us — another round, another joke — and the conversation moved on to the team looking for a new social media manager. I nodded, answered when they lobbed something easy my way, laughed at the parts I was supposed to. The whiskey warmed my hands. The club lights smeared across the table.
But the image didn’t leave. Kyle at some fancy dinner, shaking hands, smiling like he’d never left anything behind. Ellery at home, plates for two going cold because schedules moved faster than promises. The thought of it sat under my skin like a bruise.
Adam leaned over again, voice low and friendly, “Look, if you’re brooding about the wrong thing, call me. I’ll sort it with a punch. Or with a drink. Or both.”
I gave him a glare and a small, humorless laugh. “I’ll take the drink.”
He clapped my shoulder, satisfied. “Good. We’ll toast to whatever disaster you’re planning to make romantic.”
I wanted to tell them all to shut up and let the thing be simple. I wanted to tell them I wasn’t brooding — I was thinking. About waiting and about who should be doing the waiting. About how you don’t earn somebody’s life by being tidy on the outside.
Instead, I downed the whiskey. Noise would drown the thought for a little while.
For now.
The music shifted — heavier now, bass pulsing like it was synced with my heartbeat. The lights cut through the haze in flashes of gold and red, too sharp, too loud, too much. Derek and Adam had already vanished into the crowd, each with a woman on his arm, laughter echoing somewhere near the bar.
Logan stayed behind, leaned back in the booth with his usual calm, nursing a drink that hadn’t moved in ten minutes.
I stayed too.
He glanced over at me, one eyebrow raised. “You hate this kind of scene. Why’d you come?”
“Distraction,” I said, swirling what was left of my whiskey.
