But the metaphorical playing field isn’t level, and it hasn’t been since I stepped onto it. Everest recovers too fast, suddenly coming up beside me. His foot juts out in front of mine, sending me stumbling sideways. My balance slips, but I regain momentum and jerk the top of my stick backwards towards his dick. It hits his inner thigh, close enough for the life to flash before his eyes and Everest falls back. Left with an opening, I steam forward on light feet, the rush of adrenaline carrying me towards my goal. I rear back and shoot just as the whistle blows. I turn towards Claire before the ball has found its mark to see her shaking a red card at me.
“Aggression on the pitch. Player is disqualified,” she says. My mouth drops open.
“Are you shitting me right now, Claire?! I’ll show you aggression!” Tossing my stick aside, I’m tearing my gloves off and storming towards Claire with my fists already clenched when Everest jogs over to put himself in the way.
“Now, now Faker. No one likes a sore loser,” he grins, his arms raised in mock pity. “That whole rage thing was super cute though. You can bring it to my dorm room anytime,” he calls, just loud enough to carry. The crowd roars with laughter. Some of it sounds sympathetic, most of it doesn’t. I stand frozen, my spine so rigid it might snap. My throat tightens, and for a second, I’m not sure if I’m going to scream or cry. I do neither. Instead, I just stand there, bathed in humiliation and shame. I can’t bring myself to move or leave, can’t begin to understand how I got to this point.
Beside me, Claire announces Captain Everest as the champion and he does another victory lap, soaking up attention like a frat boy with a God complex. Maybe that’s exactly what he is, and maybe I let him win. Not on purpose, but by playing bythe rules. By thinking I could prove something by showing up and playing fair. He didn’t beat me with talent. He beat me withcontrol.
Strangely, the sinking ache of failure doesn’t settle. Instead, I exhale, knowing I’m leaving Everest and lacrosse behind me. It’s not crushing, it’s…freeing. I don’t have to come this way anymore, don’t have to see him again. I was stupid to think I could step back into the past. I need to find a new hobby, a new lifeline.
Just as I decide to leave the field, the sharp blare of the fire alarm rips through the air. Everyone freezes. Confused glances are passed around, murmurs about a drill circulating until smoke starts pouring out of the side building. More specifically, the doorway I entered from, where the female locker room is. Where my phone is.
The crowd starts moving, running for the exit and trampling over each other. Screams pierce the air as people shove and panic, pushing and elbowing their way out of the bleachers and towards the stadium lobby. I stand rooted to the spot, watching the plumes of smoke thicken.
I feel my brain short-circuit, instinct overriding logic. Without my phone, I have no contact with Thiago. No way to call him when I get back to my room and cry about my shitty day, no way to hear him console me. I haven’t known him for long, but he’s been the one constant I’ve had throughout my recovery. He’s the only person who sees the whole picture, who sees me.
I can’t lose that connection.
Without thinking, I’m sprinting across the field, weaving through the panicked flood of bodies. A few people shout and grab for me, but I twist away, my lungs burning as I run faster than I knew I could. I hit the hallway and shove the locker room door open, coughing as a wave of smoke barrels into me. I rip myjersey up and press it over my mouth and nose, squinting into the haze.
The alarm is blaring overhead, the room flashing red. The sting in my eyes is fierce so I power onward blind, one hand outstretched to feel my way back to the lockers. Once there, it’s a guessing game and a fumble for my padlock.
“Meg!” An arm wraps around my waist, yanking me backward. Terror surges through me, a very similar situation taking me back to my kidnapping, minus the smoke. I strike back with my elbow, kicking and thrashing in a bid to break free of the hold. The arm only tightens, dragging me aside until I’m turned and thrown against the lockers. “What the fuck are you doing?!”
Green eyes fill my vision. I blink against the smoke, vaguely making out the sharp cut of Everest’s jaw. He’s covering his mouth and nose with his hand, glaring at me as if I caused the fire myself. I frown and shove at his chest, making a break to escape. Everest grabs my shoulder and pins his knee against my thigh.
“We have to get out of here.” He calls through his hand. I shake my head.
“I need my phone!” I yell back through my jersey. “Let go of me!”
Everest stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, which maybe I have, and shouts something I can’t quite hear over the alarms. With some more shoving and a heavy dose of stubbornness, I manage to twist out of his grip and sprint deeper into the room, my vision tunneling and heart hammering.
Despite the jersey, smoke tears through my nose and throat, ripping through my lungs. I crouch low, trying to duck beneath the smoke whilst reaching up to find my padlock. It has to be here somewhere.
“Meg!” I hear my name being screamed. “Leave your phone. It’s not worth it!” And that’s where he’s wrong. It’s not just a phone. It’s the only friend in the world I have waiting on the other end, thinking I’ve ghosted him. Some things are worth risking everything, and in my heart, I know Thiago is one of them.
The smoke is everywhere now. Every breath feels like it’s tearing into my throat with jagged, blistering heat, but I keep going, half-crawling, half-stumbling. My free hand scrapes along the metal lockers as I squint through the thickness. As long as there’s no sign of flames or increasing heat that prickles my skin, I keep pushing forward. My lungs are screaming, eyes stinging so violently I can’t tell if I’m crying or just being stripped of vision by the acidic haze, but none of it matters. I’m not leaving without that one connection, that one lifeline, the only piece of sanity that has stayed constant since everything else was ripped apart.
At last, the padlock pushes against my palm. With a shaking hand, I fumble with the numbers, cursing the fog inside my skull that’s slowing me down. I click them into place, knowing the blurred numbers by heart. 06–05–80.
I’ve done it a thousand times, but this time I spin the dial too fast. Wrong. Ugh, try again. My fingers slip on the metal, the casing becoming slicked with sweat. I hiss out a sob, my body hunched. I cough so hard, my ribs threaten to crack whilst the pounding of the alarm overhead carves into my skull like a war drum.
Behind me, I hear the scuffle of sneakers on tile, the harsh thud of someone coughing and the crash of something falling over. I don’t look back. I can’t. My entire focus is reduced to this locker, to this padlock, to the tiny moment between knowing if I have someone in my corner or not. I spin the dial again, slower this time and I feel rather than hear the clicks.
Finally.
I yank the door open, digging through the inside without care, tossing clothes and cleats and a half-crushed protein bar until my hand closes around the familiar smooth curve of my phone. I clutch it to my chest like it’s a weapon, a shield, a life preserver in a flood of fire. My knees buckle in relief as I hold it close. But the relief is short-lived.
A loud crack echoes behind me, something metal collapsing, and then the thud of footsteps running straight toward me. Everest reappears, dragging his arm across his eyes, face red and glistening with sweat and fury. He spots me, crouched and clutching my phone like it’s holy, and he actually growls.
“Are you fucking insane?!” he bellows, grabbing my arm and hauling me up so fast my vision reels. “You’re gonna die in here for a phone?”
“It’s none of your damn business! Why are you even still here?” I choke out, coughing hard enough to double over.
“You’re inhaling smoke like it’s oxygen, and you’re still arguing with me?” His grip tightens. “There’s something seriously wrong with you.” I don’t have a chance to respond, although my voice is too raw to force out words anyway. This time, I don’t resist his tugging me along behind him. I struggle to keep up with his speed, my legs buckling as I struggle to breathe. Rasping coughs leak from my throat, my body convulsing with the burn inside.
Everest groans, furious at his current predicament, and again I have to question, what is he even doing here? Suddenly, my world turns on its head as Everest throws me over his shoulder. My scream is hoarse and pitiful, but he doesn’t stop. He stumbles back through the locker room, using the walls to brace himself as the smoke gets heavier, the heat scratching at us.
