Chapter 9
Jalen
I was sitting in my bed staring at the ceiling like it had answers.
The house was quiet per usual.
Normally the night before a home game, I’d be locked in. Film reviewed. Body stretched. Phone on do not disturb.
Tonight, I couldn’t focus on anything but her.
The way she’d smelled when I held her up that night.
Something warm. Soft. Clean. The scent had lingered on my hoodie longer than it should have.
I turned onto my side and closed my eyes, but that only made it worse.
Her laugh. Low and quick. The way her eyes bounced when she was flirting, like she was testing how much she could get away with before pulling back.
I exhaled slowly.
This was distracting, and I don’t get distracted.
My phone lit up on the nightstand.
I glanced at it casually.
Then sat up.
Mars.
I checked the time.
It was well past midnight, far too late for her to be calling.
A sharp flicker of concern ran through me as I hit answer.
“Amara?”
Silence lingered on the line for half a second before a soft laugh broke through the quiet.
“Amara?” she repeated.
I sat back against the headboard, resting my forearm across my knee as a wave of relief settled in at the sound of her voice.
It was calm, smooth, and a little heavy with fatigue.
“You don’t like it?” I asked.
“No one calls me that unless I’m in trouble.”
I smiled into the dark room.
“It’s a good name.
It fits you.”
She hummed lightly.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
I let the silence stretch for a beat, testing the waters.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, a fraction too quickly.
“You don’t dial a number at this hour when everything is perfect.”
She sighed softly, her professional armor finally cracking under the weight of the night.
“I’m nervous.”
“About tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“What part?”
“All of it.
The cameras.
The speculation.
The... optics.”
She let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh.
“I manage crises, Jalen.
I don’t usually star in them.”
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me.
“Look,” I said, my voice dropping into that steady, grounded register I used when the noise got too loud.
“You know what I do right before I run out that tunnel?”
“What.”
“I breathe. I remind myself that pressure is just noise. Noise only matters if you let it get inside.”
She was quiet, listening.
“You don’t owe the stadium anything,” I continued. “You’re not there to perform. You’re there to exist.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“It’s not,” I said honestly. “It took me years to believe it.”
Another pause.
“I forget you’re human,” she said softly.
I laughed.
“Appreciate that.”
“I mean it,” she added. “You look… unbothered.”
“I’m not. I just don’t let it show.”
She was quiet again.
“You’ll be fine tomorrow,” I said. “You’re composed. You’re smarter than most of the people talking about you. And you don’t scare easy.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
There was a subtle shift in her breathing. Slower now.
Calmer.
“You’re good at this,” she said.
“At what.”
“Grounding people.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She laughed quietly.
I let the conversation settle into something softer.
“So,” I said, “tell me something about you.”
She hesitated.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“That’s not true.”
“I don’t really… dwell on my past.”
“That’s different from not having one.”
She was quiet long enough that I could tell I’d touched something.
“I don’t have one,” she said finally, voice light but controlled.
I smiled slightly.
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Another pause.
When she spoke again, her voice was softer.
“I just don’t like sitting in it.”
I didn’t push it.
I understood that more than she probably thought.
“You don’t have to,” I said simply.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
“I should let you rest,” she said after a moment.
“You trying to be considerate.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I chuckled.
“We’ll meet tomorrow,” I said. “An hour and a half before kickoff. I’ll have someone bring you down field side for warmups.”
“Field side,” she repeated, like she was testing how it sounded.
“You’ll be fine,” I said again.
“Okay.”
Another pause.
“Jalen.”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
“For what.”
“For not making this weird.”
I smiled into the quiet room.
“It’s not weird.”
“No,” she said softly. “It’s not.”
We lingered another few seconds before hanging up.
When the line went dead, I lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling again.
Except this time, my mind wasn’t restless.
It was steady.
Tomorrow would be loud.
But tonight, for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel heavy.
And I realized something as I closed my eyes.
I wasn’t just looking forward to the game.
I was looking forward to seeing her.