For the first time since Tyson slithered his way into our lives, I don’t feel like I’m fighting this alone.
People saw. People heard. And now they know.
A man can walk off a kick to the dick. But humiliation among his peers? That sticks.
And here’s something I’ve figured out—people might overlook what he’s done to Alex, because he’s a man.
But I’m a different story. They won’t ignore him crossing lines with me.
Chapter 16
Alex Sebring
The locker room smells of sweat, frustration, and stale adrenaline.
Nobody’s talking. Not really, only a few curses muttered under breath. A slam of a locker door. Tape ripped from bruised skin. But mostly that weighty, quiet kind of defeat that settles behind your ribs and stays there long after the scoreboard’s gone dark.
I don’t bother showering. I wasn’t in the game, only suited up on the sidelines, headset on, trying to stay sharp. Trying not to think too hard about how close I’m getting.
But tonight… yeah. That was brutal.
Our half-fly had an off night. Bad reads, messy kicks, hesitation in every play. I can already predict what people will say: he cracked under pressure, he’s pissed I’m back at practice breathing down his neck, he’s already halfway out the door and doesn’t realize it yet.
There’s truth to all of those things.
Thoughts get in your head. Threats. Doubts. You second-guess yourself and then you’re two plays behind and bleeding confidence with every drive. I’ve been there. Hell, I’ve lived it.
So no, I don’t judge him.
But I know what it means. The talk is already starting. Coaches whispering. Journalists sniffing around. Fans posting clips of old games with my name in the captions.
His poor performance tonight may push me back into the game sooner rather than later.
It’s a weird thing to feel sorry for the guy.
I lean against the edge of my locker, hands braced on either side, and take a long breath. This isn’t the way I want this to happen. I don’t want my comeback to be someone else’s collapse. But that’s the game. It doesn’t wait. It doesn’t care.
And I want back in.
My body’s still making its comeback. It’s close. Almost ready. My lungs are stronger. My ankle holds. The fire in my chest is lit again—and I’m starving for it. Not the glory. Not even the pay. Only the game. The brutal, beautiful rhythm of it. Contact. Movement. Precision. Sacrifice.
I want to earn that spot again. Not inherit it because it was once mine.
The room clears out, and a few guys head toward the showers. A couple throw on clean shirts and make their way to the post-game lounge where the wives and families are waiting.
I’m not sore, not battered, not bruised. And somehow, that stings more than it should. But I’ll be back. Not in theory. Not in whispers. For real.
Soon.
When I am, I won’t be the shadow on the pitch. I’ll be The Wall again.
The hum of the post-match lounge hits before I even walk through the double doors—laughter rolling low, glasses clinking, the occasional cheer rising from one of the flat-screens replaying highlights from the game. Music plays loud enough to fill the space but not loud enough to drown out the conversations buzzing across the wide, open room.
It’s familiar and easy. What you’d expect after a home match, win or lose. But tonight, the vibe’s different. Duller at the edges. Everyone’s trying a little too hard to pretend the scoreboard didn’t say what it did.
No one says it out loud, but I know what’s in the air.
Disappointment. Discord. Doubt.
