Chapter 34 #2
The interview finally ends a few minutes later.
The second I stand, noise erupts across the room, more questions, camera movement, people already discussing headlines.
The attention follows me physically as I leave.
I feel it all the way down the hallway afterward.
Phones out. Whispers. The unmistakable shift of public scrutiny intensifying in real time.
My skin feels too tight. Part of me still wants distance desperately. Still wants to regain control over the narrative before vulnerability spreads wider.
Instead I keep walking.
No corrections. No clarifications. No attempt to emotionally shrink what I said after the fact.
I hurt the woman I loved because I was afraid of being publicly vulnerable beside her.
The exposure still terrifies me.
I'm just more afraid of becoming the version of myself who hurt her again.
The headlines start appearing before I even leave the arena. I see the first notification light up across Maddox's phone while we walk toward the parking garage.
HAYES ADDRESSES VALE QUESTIONS DIRECTLY AFTER PLAYOFF WIN
"Jesus Christ," Maddox mutters.
"Bad?"
He snorts once.
"Depends how much you enjoy public vulnerability."
Not especially.
I still feel strangely calm underneath the adrenaline crash. Not comfortable. Definitely not comfortable. Just settled in a way I haven't been after media in a long time.
For once, I didn't leave the room feeling like I abandoned her emotionally to protect myself.
We reach the parking garage elevator and Maddox glances sideways at me while pressing the button.
"You gonna call her?"
The question hits. I lean back briefly against the concrete wall beside the elevator and exhale slowly.
"No," I say finally.
Maddox raises an eyebrow.
"No?"
"I didn't do it for points."
The words settle heavily between us. Because before, every vulnerable action carried hidden urgency: please fix this, please reassure me, please close the distance before I stop feeling exposed.
Even my apologies used to reach unconsciously toward emotional resolution before Arabella was ready to give it.
I am not doing that to her again.
The elevator doors open. Neither of us moves.
"She might not come back," Maddox says carefully.
Not cruel. Just honest. The truth lands.
"I know."
And I do now. Fully. Arabella does not owe me reconciliation because I finally started behaving correctly after hurting her.
I step into the elevator while exhaustion drags heavily through my body. The vulnerability aftermath still feels physical, restless adrenaline, that lingering instinctive discomfort after public emotional exposure. The fear never disappeared.
I just stopped letting fear decide what Arabella deserved from me.
My phone buzzes repeatedly on the drive home afterward.
Messages. Articles. Teammates sending screenshots.
I ignore all of them. At a red light, Arabella's contact sits near the top of my recent messages.
My thumb hovers over it instinctively. The urge to reach for her physically aches beneath my ribs.
Did you see it?
I meant what I said.
I'm trying.
The words press hard against the back of my throat.
I put the phone face-down on the passenger seat instead. Because accountability only matters if it exists consistently without demanding emotional reward afterward. Arabella spent too long carrying the emotional consequences of my fear already.
I will not make her carry the responsibility of soothing my guilt too.
By the time I reach my apartment, exhaustion drags through every muscle in my body. I loosen my tie walking through the dark quiet rooms while city lights spill faintly through the windows.
Then I stop.
Sitting on the kitchen counter beside the coffee machine is Arabella's scarf. Still there from the night before. Soft grey fabric folded carefully beside the fruit bowl.
The sight of it hits low and painful. It doesn't feel hopeful.
It feels absent.
I walk over slowly and pick it up. The fabric still smells faintly like her shampoo. My chest tightens violently. The urge to call almost overwhelms me again right there.
Instead I close my eyes briefly and force myself to stay still inside the ache.
No pressure. No emotional pulling. No forcing closeness because vulnerability became difficult to tolerate again.
Just consistency. Just truth.
Changed behaviour means nothing if I only maintain it when I think it will bring her back.
The interview clips spread everywhere overnight.
By morning the entire sports cycle has apparently decided I developed emotions publicly for the first time in recorded history.
I sit at the kitchen island drinking coffee gone cold while muted ESPN coverage rolls across the television.
Split-screen analysis. Playoff commentary.
Then Arabella's name again. A clip of me answering questions plays across the bottom corner while analysts discuss "a noticeable shift in tone" surrounding my public handling of the relationship.
I just watch it. Uncomfortable. Exposed. Weirdly calm underneath all of it.
The fear remains physically present. That part still surprises me every time.
Even now, hearing myself speak openly about Arabella on national television sends instinctive tension crawling through my nervous system.
Vulnerability still feels dangerous. Public visibility still scrapes against old survival instincts hard enough to hurt.
Growth didn't erase any of that.
It just changed what matters more.
My phone buzzes against the counter.
PR: Need to discuss response strategy when possible.
I almost laugh.
Response strategy.
For years I treated love like something requiring containment plans the second other people looked too closely at it. No wonder Arabella felt hidden.
A clip of Arabella at Worlds flashes across the screen suddenly, laughing during an interview, confident, warm, fully alive. The sight still physically knocks breath loose from my lungs every time. It isn't that she moved on.
It's that she survived me.
That thought carries grief inside it now instead of defensiveness.
I lean back slowly in the chair and stare at the screen. I cannot undo this. Cannot erase the months she spent feeling emotionally compartmentalized beside me. Cannot magically repair trust because I finally learned how to tell the truth publicly after breaking her heart privately.
Arabella may still decide I became safe too late.
The realization hurts.
Still true.
And underneath all of it, vulnerability continues terrifying me. Especially now. Because openness means uncertainty. Exposure. The possibility of loving someone visibly without controlling the outcome.
The alternative feels worse.
I look down at my phone again. Arabella still hasn't messaged. No reaction. No reassurance. No indication whether seeing the interview changed anything for her emotionally at all.
The silence aches.
I don't feel the instinctive urge to regain control over it. No frantic explanation. No emotional pulling. No attempt to manage her response into something that calms me faster.
Just uncertainty.
Somewhere inside this city, Arabella is living her life. Training. Healing. Maybe deciding whether there's still space for me inside her future at all. I don't know. That uncertainty remains terrifying.
The most important choice was never whether Arabella forgave me yet.
It was finally becoming someone capable of loving her openly before knowing if I would get to keep her.