I make it to the locker room, toss my bag into a cubby, and stare at my reflection in the mirror over the sinks.
Hair up.
Skin clear.
Lashes on.
Game face.
There is no visible evidence that the boy I almost had just put another girl on a private plane and took her to rewrite theirtragic origin story like some East Coast version of a romance novel.
You would never know by looking at me that my chest has felt like a cracked windshield all morning.
Good.
That’s how I like it.
I splash cold water on my wrists and head back out toward treatment because my now left hamstring has been barking for three days and apparently the universe believes heartbreak should come with maintenance issues.
The training room is packed.
Monday means taped ankles, ice packs, compression sleeves, sore shoulders, stressed trainers, and the particular smell of menthol and ambition that clings to every athletic facility in America.
I sign in, grab a seat against the wall, and immediately regret existing.
Because two tables over, some lacrosse girl is whispering to her friend while staring at her phone.
And I know.
I know without looking what’s on the screen.
Still, because I’m weak and self-destructive and apparently committed to emotional self-harm before ten a.m., I look anyway.
Stella in that dark blue dress.
Tristan in a tux.
His face bent toward hers like the rest of the ballroom already disappeared.
There’s another one too.
The one everybody keeps reposting.
Them outside somewhere with wind in her hair and his hand on her waist and enough chemistry in one still image to short-circuit the east coast electrical grid.
I look away so fast my neck almost protests.
My jaw locks.
The trainer calls somebody’s name.
Tape rips.
A football player laughs too loudly at something near the whirlpool tubs.
Normal Monday.
My personal apocalypse is apparently not enough to stop the world from continuing.
