And the only thing I can feel is the heat rising in my chest.
“I hate that fucker.”
My fist slams into the locker, the metal ringing out sharp and final. Heads turn. No one says a word. They know better.
Rhett’s already walking over, helmet dangling from his fingers, brows raised. He’s the only one who doesn’t flinch when I lose it. He’s seen worse.
“Who’s the chick?” he asks, voice low. “Because I know damn well that’s the only thing that gets you this riled up.”
I don’t answer right away. My knuckles throb. The locker door’s dented. Micah’s smirk still burns in the back of my skull.
“Blair,” I say finally. Her name grounds me. “Micah saw her this morning. Said she looked hot. Said she might be meeting someone else.”
Rhett whistles under his breath. “He’s still pissed you laid him out.”
“He’s still trying to get in my head,” I mutter.
Rhett shrugs. “Then don’t let him.”
I nod, jaw tight. Because I don’t believe Micah. Not for a second. Blair’s not like that. She’s not playing games. She’s not looking for attention. And even if she was—I’d know. I’d feel it.
But that’s not the point.
The point is, I don’t want her name in his mouth.
Micah’s loud across the room, laughing with a couple of the guys like he didn’t just try to twist the knife. He’s a decent player. Fast. Sharp. But he’s not the captain. He’s not respected. Not really.
I am.
And if he thinks he can mess with me through her, he’s about to learn what it means to cross a line.
“I’ve got somewhere to be.”
I look at Rhett, voice low but firm. He’s the only one I owe an explanation to.
“I’ll be ready in time.”
Rhett smirks, shrugs his shoulders like he’s already bracing for the fallout. “Coach is going to kill you, brother.”
“I can deal with him.” I grab my phone, the screen still dark. “I need to see my girl.”
That last part slips out before I can stop it. But it’s true. She’s not just some distraction. Not just some pre-game ritual. She’s the thing that’s got my pulse racing harder than kickoff.
I bolt out of the locker room, cleats echoing against the hallway tile. The noise fades behind me, Micah’slaugh, the music, the scent of sweat and adrenaline. None of it matters.
Because if Blair’s out there waiting, doubting, spiraling, I need to be the one she sees first.
Before the crowd.
Before the game.
Before anyone else tries to rewrite what last night meant.
Blair
Kinsley’s curling her hair at the mirror, one leg tucked under her, the wand spinning through long strands like it’s just another Saturday. She hums something soft, something forgettable, and doesn’t look up when I sit on the edge of my bed.
She’s being cool about this. Too cool.
