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Joey barrelled into me next, practically bouncing on the spot. “You’re an absolute legend, mate! Did you see it? Of course you saw it, you kicked it. But still—fuck!”

I laughed, shoving him lightly. “Settle down, Joey. You’ll blow a gasket.” The energy in the room was electric. Alive in a way that made everything else fade out for a while.

This was it.

This was the feeling.

And for a second—just a second—it almost filled the space.

Almost.

Because even standing there, surrounded by noise and bodies and celebration, there was a part of me that was somewhere else. I glanced around the room again, at the boys with their families filtering in, arms thrown around shoulders, laughter shared in close circles. It was moments like this when I wished I had someone to share this incredible experience with, someone that was waiting for me after every game. But I finally had the courage to cut all contact with Mum six years ago before she died, and relationships were out of the question. I refused to give what was left of my heart to anyone else after what happened to Evie.

The noise lingered, even after the showers. I dressed slower than the rest, pulling on a fresh shirt, dragging a comb through damp hair that wouldn’t sit right anyway.

“Oi,” Andrew called, tossing his bag over his shoulder. “You coming to the Brook?”

“Not a smart idea, mate,” I said, zipping my bag.

He scoffed. “Since when do you care about smart?”

Since I nearly lost everything.

I’d moved into a small one-bedroom flat across the road from a popular nightclub when I first moved to the city, and after several months of ignoring the thumping bass every weekend, I eventually gave in and spent a few hours in the club with a blonde between my legs, a redhead on my face. Everything just faded away, even if it was for a moment. Sex was a good distraction when all you could picture was what stage of decomposition your girlfriend’s body was at.

Believe me.

So I did that song and dance for years, until I’d almost lost my captaincy after a leaked photo scandal with two women in the club’s bathroom came out nine months ago. I’d been sanctioned and sidelined for four games, watching from the coach’s room while everyone questioned if I was worth the trouble. That was enough for me to open my eyes to my own self-destructive behaviour, and I’d been celibate ever since.

“Come on, Easton.” Andrew grinned, already halfway to the door. “Celebrate with us. Just…stay out of the toilets this time, yeah?” he teased, and a couple of the boys laughed.

“Fuck off,” I muttered, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Go have fun.”

He walked backward, pointing at me. “Your loss, captain!”

“Yeah,” I responded flatly. “Story of my life.” I grabbed my bag and made my way toward the elevators. The hallway was quiet, and each step away from the rooms stripped something off me. The noise, the adrenaline, the illusion, and by the time I hit the elevators, it was just me again. The doors slid open with a soft ding. I stepped inside and hit the button. The hum filled the silence as I stared at my reflection in the mirrored doors. Semi-dried hair, bruises already blooming, a smile that didn’t quite make it all the way to my eyes. “What a fucking joke,” I muttered under my breath. The doors didn’t argue, they just showed it back to me.

When I reached the underground carpark, it was cold. My BMW chirped as I unlocked it, the sound echoing off concrete. I dropped into the driver’s seat, head falling back for a second as a long groan left my chest.

“Fuck,” I muttered, checking my phone. Nothing. No messages from Dr. Sharpe. I hesitated for half a second longer than I should’ve, then tossed it onto the passenger seat and started the engine.

Dr. Sharpe, the team-appointed psychologist, had helped pull me out of the bottomless pit I’d placed myself in. For the last seven years, I’d had a constant cloud of guilt hovering above me, running in circles, wreaking havoc on anything that got too close, calling it coping, tortured by the way I’d lost the only person who ever loved me. Dr. Sharpe’s voice sat in the back of my head like it always did.

What would Evie do, Jackson?

I gripped the wheel tighter.

Would she live her life?

Or would she punish herself for something that wasn’t her fault?

The answer was always easy—Evie would’ve lived.

She would’ve cried, yeah. But she wouldn’t have stayed buried in it. She wouldn’t have let it rot her from the inside out. That was never who she was. That was me. I was stuck in a vicious cycle of self-loathing and self-sabotage to heal wounds that she’d unknowingly left behind. We almost had our chance, and that was what kills me the most. In another life…she was in the stands tonight. Or waiting at home to pull me back down to earth…maybe a ring on her finger…maybe a kid with gorgeous green eyes. Maybe a life that actually meant something. But instead, I was almost thirty with nothing to show for myself but a career that’d end sooner than I wanted it to.

That night I lost Evie wouldn’t ever leave me.

It never had.