Chapter 17 #2
Kirk mutters something under his breath that sounds like satisfaction.
I swallow hard and follow them, keeping my eyes forward.
I don’t look up into the stands, even though I can feel Rafe there, even though I know he saw all of it.
I walk toward the tunnel with my chest burning and my hands shaking, knowing I have about ten seconds before we hit the locker room door and the real fallout begins.
The locker room is too loud when we walk in. Too many voices. Too much movement. The sharp hiss of showers turning on, the slap of towels, the scrape of benches being dragged back.
I drop onto the bench in front of my locker and stare at my shoes. My hands are shaking. I tell myself it’s adrenaline. That it’s normal after a loss like that. That I’ll breathe through it and it will pass.
Kirk doesn’t give it time to pass.
“Well,” he says loudly, peeling his jersey off like he’s putting on a performance, “that was a fucking embarrassment.”
I keep my head down. Marco stiffens two lockers over. I can feel it without looking.
Kirk keeps going. “All that hype. All that talk. And then we come out flat as shit.”
Dan mutters something under his breath, but Kirk plows right over it.
“Some of you might want to remember this is a team,” he adds, voice dripping with accusation. “Not a one-man show.”
Marco turns fully now. “You done?”
Kirk snorts. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”
“No,” Marco says evenly. “You’re saying what you always say when things don’t go your way.”
I lace my fingers together, pressing them hard enough that my knuckles ache.
Kirk’s eyes flick to me. His mouth curls. “Funny,” he says. “Because from where I was sitting, our golden boy couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat.”
That gets a few uncomfortable laughs. Something tightens behind my ribs.
Marco steps closer. “Knock it off.”
“What?” Kirk says, spreading his hands. “We’re not allowed to talk about bad games now?”
Dan chimes in, voice calm but firm. “We all played like shit tonight.”
Kirk ignores him. “I didn’t get pulled.”
Marco’s jaw tightens. “You also blew three defensive rotations.”
Kirk scoffs. “At least my head was in the game.”
That lands. My breathing goes shallow. I tell myself to stand up. To walk away. To get in the shower and let the hot water pound this out of me.
Kirk isn’t done.
“Maybe if some people weren’t distracted,” he says casually, like he’s discussing the weather, “they’d play better.”
Marco steps directly in front of him now. “Careful.”
Kirk’s gaze slides past Marco, locking onto me. His smile sharpens. “I saw him,” he says.
The room seems to tilt.
“Saw who?” Marco asks.
Kirk chuckles. “Your little rock star friend. Sitting up there in the crowd like he owns the place.”
A few heads turn, and my heart slams hard against my chest.
Marco’s voice drops. “Shut. Up.”
Kirk raises an eyebrow. “What? Everyone saw him. Guy’s hard to miss.”
My ears ring.
“He’s loud,” Kirk continues. “Flashy. Fuckboy jeans. Eyeliner.”
Something cold coils in my stomach.
“And what,” Dan says carefully, “does that have to do with the game?”
Kirk’s smile widens. “Oh, come on,” he says. “You don’t put that together?”
Marco lunges forward a half step. “Stop.”
Kirk finally looks at him. “Why are you so defensive?”
Silence stretches. Then Kirk turns back to me.
“Guess it makes sense,” he says lightly. “You playing soft lately. Hanging around guys like that.”
My vision narrows, and I hear my pulse in my ears.
“Heard he goes both ways,” Kirk adds. “That true?”
Marco snaps, “Enough.”
Kirk ignores him. “Makes you wonder, right? All that time together.”
My hands clench.
“Maybe that’s why you’re so distracted,” he continues. “Hard to focus when you’re busy—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, because something inside me breaks cleanly and completely.
I don’t think.
I don’t plan.
I don’t calculate consequences.
I just stand and swing.
My fist connects with his jaw with a sickening crack that reverberates up my arm. Kirk staggers back, shock flashing across his face for exactly one second before rage takes over.
He comes at me hard.
His fist slams into the side of my face. Pain explodes near my eye, white and blinding. I barely feel it before Marco and Dan are between us, hands grabbing shoulders, voices shouting.
“Hey! Hey!”
“Break it up!”
Kirk thrashes, trying to get another hit in. I lunge back, adrenaline screaming through me, but someone grabs my arm, pulling me away.
The room is chaos now. Lockers rattling. Someone yells for security. Someone else swears loudly.
Coach’s voice cuts through everything like a blade. “Marshall!”
I freeze.
He’s already striding toward me, face thunderous. He takes in the scene in a single glance—Kirk being restrained, me standing there breathing hard, blood starting to trickle down the side of my face.
“Office,” he says sharply. “Now.”
I don’t argue. I don’t say anything at all. I follow him like my body is on autopilot. The hallway is quiet compared to the locker room, but my ears are still ringing. My vision pulses at the edges. My face throbs.
Coach doesn’t slow down. He pushes open the door to the visiting coach’s office and motions me inside. The door shuts behind us with a heavy thud.
For a second, he just stares at me. Then he explodes. “What the hell were you thinking?” he demands. “Do you have any idea what you just did?”
The words hit me, but they feel distant, like I’m underwater.
“I—” My mouth opens, but nothing useful comes out.
“You assaulted a teammate,” he continues. “In my locker room with the press standing outside.”
“I’m sorry,” I say automatically.
“That doesn’t cover it,” he snaps. “You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t press charges.”
I nod, heart pounding too slowly now, like it’s exhausted.
“There will be consequences,” he says. “You’ll be benched. You will be fined. And if this happens again—” He stops and exhales hard through his nose. “This isn’t you,” he says, voice still furious but edged with something else. Disappointment. “Or maybe it is, and I didn’t see it.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
He studies my face, then gestures sharply. “Go see Shane.”
I blink. “What?”
He points. “You’re bleeding.”
I touch the side of my eye, having forgotten the trickle from earlier. My fingers come away red. “Yeah,” I mutter, even as a throb of pain pulses behind my right eye.
“Get it cleaned up,” Coach says. “We’re at the hotel tonight. Fly out tomorrow afternoon. I want you lying low. No press. No comments. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Coach.”
He nods once, sharply. “Get out.”
Once I’m with Shane, he barely says a word as he cleans the cut, dabbing antiseptic that burns like hell. He tells me I’ll have a black eye by morning. He puts on a waterproof bandage and clears me medically, but his eyes are worried.
When I walk back into the locker room, it goes quiet. Not awkward quiet. Heavy quiet.
Kirk is gone, but I don’t ask where.
I strip and shower without looking at anyone, the hot water stinging my face, sliding down my back, washing away sweat and blood and something else I can’t name. By the time I come back to dress, most of the guys are gone. The loss still hangs in the air.
Marco is still here. He looks up when he sees me. His eyes flick to my face and soften. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
“I’m fine,” I say.
He doesn’t push. “Bus leaves in fifteen.”
I nod, my lungs feeling too tight. “I’ll be out soon,” I say, barely above a whisper.
Marco hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. Okay.”
Dread unfurls in my gut. Shame follows close behind.
I pull my shirt on with shaking hands, knowing the moment I walk out of this room, I’m going to have to face Rafe. And I have no idea how to explain any of it.
I want to crawl into a hole. I want to dissolve into the tile beneath my feet, to become nothing more than steam and soap and the echo of running water. I want to rewind the last hour and swallow my fists whole before they ever leave my body.
Instead, I pull my hoodie up, cap low, and walk out of the locker room like I’m made of glass.
The hallway outside is busy. Staff, security, media people hovering at the edges like vultures who know there’s blood in the water. I keep my head down and move fast, my duffel heavy on my shoulder, my face throbbing with every heartbeat.
My eye is already swelling. I can feel it, the tightness under my skin. By tomorrow it will be purple and ugly.
Tomorrow I’m supposed to meet Rafe’s parents.
I swallow hard and keep walking. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out with shaking fingers. A text from Rafe.
Rafe: Where are you?
The question makes my stomach turn. He knows something’s wrong. Of course he does.
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering. The urge to lie rises instinctively, automatic as breathing, but the thought of trying to smooth this over in text makes me feel sick.
Me: Leaving locker room. Need to see you. Quick.
Three dots appear immediately.
Rafe: Are you okay?
I almost laugh. The answer is so obviously no.
Me: Just… find me by the tunnel. Please.
A beat follows.
Rafe: On my way.
I shove my phone back into my pocket and keep moving.
The tunnel is a dim corridor off the main concourse, the kind of place that smells like concrete and stale popcorn, where the noise of the arena muffles into a distant roar. I stop near a support pillar and press my shoulder against it, breathing carefully.
My body is exhausted. My brain is screaming. Shame crawls up my throat like acid.
I did that. I did that with my own hands.
A month ago, I could barely breathe when Rafe mentioned security coordinating with my life. Tonight, I threw a punch in a locker room like I was someone I don’t recognize.
The sound of footsteps approaches, and I look up.
Rafe appears around the corner, and I swear my heart knocks against my chest at the sight of him. He’s still in his cap and sunglasses, hoodie pulled up, face serious. Vinny flanks him at a respectful distance—his security.