Adrian
The recovery room is empty when I push through the door. Brooks, McKenna, and Knox cleared out twenty minutes ago, headed back to their hotels with plans to meet up later for drinks. I declined. Told them I had film to review, which is true, but mostly I needed space to clear my head.
The cold plunge sits in the corner, water still. I drop my towel on the bench and step to the edge. The temperature reading on the side says forty-two degrees, which is perfect.
I lower myself in slowly. The cold hits my calves first, sharp and unforgiving, and my muscles protest immediately. I keep going. Thighs, hips, torso. The shock travels up my spine, and my breathing goes shallow and quick. By the time the water reaches my chest, my heart is hammering.
I close my eyes and force myself to breathe deeper. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The cold stops feeling like a thousand needles and starts feeling like pressure, heavy and grounding.
My thoughts drift back to this morning’s practice. Knox lined up across from me, that cocky grin on his face, a scar cutting through his eyebrow. The way he moved. Fast and fluid, every route crisp despite the trash talk. He’s better than he gives himself credit for.
I’ve been watching him for a while now. Not in a creepy way. I pay attention, that’s all. Hard not to notice someone like Knox. He’s been in the league a couple of years, and every time we’ve played against each other, I’ve felt that pull. Like a hook in my chest, tugging me toward him.
At first, I told myself it was professional interest. He’s a good receiver, I’m a cornerback. Studying him makes sense. But somewhere along the way, he got under my skin.
The water presses in on all sides, and I let myself sink a little deeper. My shoulders are fully submerged now, the cold crawling up my neck.
This morning he was incredible. Every release different, every route sharp. Wilson kept calling corrections, but Knox adjusted instantly. He took it without complaint and got back to work.
And then the locker room.
I saw him sitting there, looking exhausted and vulnerable, and I wanted him to know how good he is and how much he doesn’t see it. So I did. And I can’t shake off the memory of his reaction, that raw and unguarded longing on his face.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe that’s what I wanted to see.
I take a deep breath and sink all the way under. The cold swallows me, muting everything. My lungs start to burn after a few seconds, and I surface with a gasp.
Water streams down my face. I wipe it away and climb out, skin prickling as the air hits me, the tension from the day finally easing.
I dry off quickly, get dressed, and head to the film room.
The space is small and dim, just a desk with a screen and a few rows of chairs. I pull up this morning’s practice footage and start from the beginning. Wilson had someone filming from the sideline, multiple angles, and I scrub through until I find the first one-on-one rep.
Knox explodes off the line. I pause it, rewind, watch again. His stance is wider than most, his weight balanced so he can break either way. When he moves, there’s no wasted motion.
I watch the entire sequence. The way he sells the slant, the way my hands come up to press him, the way he counters with a sharp push to break free. He catches the ball in stride, smooth and confident.
Next rep. Out route this time. I’m all over him at the line, jamming his chest, but he slips free and gets outside. The throw is behind him, and he adjusts mid-route, twisting his body to make the catch.
I run it back three more times. His body control is insane.
I should be reviewing my own technique. Looking at my footwork, my hip turns, the moments where I got beat. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing. But I keep watching Knox instead. His movement, the separation he creates, the way he reads the ball in the air.
The footage rolls on. Rep after rep. By the time I reach the sequence where he beat me on the comeback, I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been in here. The light outside the window is fading, the room going darker.
I close the video and lean back in the chair. This is a problem. Or maybe I’m the problem, and his existence makes it impossible for me to think clearly.
I grab my bag and head out.
The drive back to the hotel takes fifteen minutes.
Traffic is light, the freeway clear, and I spend most of it trying not to think about Knox staying at the same hotel.
When McKenna asked where we were staying and Knox said the Marriott, my chest clenched.
I didn’t react, but inside I was already calculating the odds of running into him.
I should probably book a different hotel, and I make a note to ask my PA after dinner.
I pull into the parking garage and grab my duffel from the passenger seat. The lobby is quiet when I walk through, just a couple at the front desk checking in and a businessman on his phone near the elevators.
My room is on the fourth floor. I drop my bag and take a quick shower, then change into clean clothes and head back downstairs.
The restaurant is attached to the lobby, small and dimly lit, with dark wood tables and soft music playing.
I take a seat near the back and order grilled chicken, vegetables, and water. Simple food that won’t sit heavy.
The server brings it out fast, and I eat without really tasting it, my mind still turning over the day.
A couple near the front recognizes me. I catch them glancing over, whispering, but they don’t approach. I appreciate that. Some people have manners.
I finish eating and sign the check to my room, but I’m not ready to go back yet. The walls up there feel too close and quiet. So I move to the bar instead.
It’s attached to the restaurant, just a small space with a polished counter and a row of bottles on the wall. A few guests are scattered around, conversations low. The bartender nods at me as I sit.
“What can I get you?”
“Whiskey. Neat.”
He pours it and slides the glass across. I take a sip, letting the burn settle in my chest. I’m not supposed to be drinking. Training camp, strict nutrition protocols. But it’s one drink. Just enough to take the edge off.
The couple from the restaurant walks past the bar, and the woman glances at me again. She smiles, tentative, and I nod back. They keep walking.
I nurse the whiskey slowly, making the one drink last. I’m almost finished when I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“What are you doing here?” The words are slurred and loose.
I set my glass down and turn around to find Knox standing in front of me. He looks disheveled. There’s a faint flush in his cheeks, and his eyes are a little glassy.
“I’m staying here,” I say. “Same as you.”
He blinks at me. “You’re staying here?”
“Yes.”
“But—” He frowns, unsteady on his feet. “You didn’t say anything. Earlier, when McKenna asked where we were staying and I said the Marriott, you didn’t say you were here too.”
I pick up my glass and take a slow sip. “I didn’t think it was important.”
“Not important?” He laughs, and the bartender glances over. “We’re staying in the same hotel, and you didn’t think that was important?”
I set the glass down. “Are you drunk?”
“Me?” His eyes go wide. “No. I just had a couple glasses of wine. I’m fine.”
He’s not fine. His words are running together at the edges, his balance is off, and he’s talking too loud.
“You’re not supposed to drink during training camp,” I say dryly.
Knox glances at my whiskey, then back at me, raising an eyebrow.
Touché.
He moves closer and drops onto the stool next to me. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt that clings to his frame. His hair is a mess, pushed back off his forehead but already falling forward again.
He gives me a sideways glance, his eyes roaming over my face like he’s trying to figure something out.
“You know what your problem is?” he finally slurs.
“Enlighten me.”
“You’re always so mysterious. Like, all the time. It’s freaky.”
I tilt my head. “Freaky?”
“Yeah.” He leans forward, and I catch the faint smell of wine on his breath. “You never say what you’re thinking. You just watch people with those eyes, and it’s like you’re taking notes or something. It freaks me out.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing and look at him.
“See?” He points at me. “You’re doing it right now.”
“Knox,” I say. “You should go to your room and get some sleep, or you won’t be able to practice tomorrow.”
He snort-laughs. “Isn’t it funny, coming from you?”
“And why is that funny?”
“‘Cause it’s your fault!”
I stare at him. “My fault?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t elaborate, only studies his reflection in the bar mirror, and I don’t ask. Because whatever he’s thinking, I don’t need to hear it. Not here and not now, because people are watching.
I feel the shift in attention around us. Conversations have gone quieter, and there’s a woman two seats down who keeps glancing over, her phone in her hand. A couple near the entrance to the restaurant is pretending not to stare, but their eyes keep drifting back.
They know who we are. The Knights’ second wide receiver and the Vipers’ cornerback, sitting at a hotel bar together, voices raised, one of them swaying on his stool.
It’s a headline waiting to happen. Someone’s going to pull out their phone, start filming, and by tomorrow morning it’ll be all over social media.
I need to get him out of here.
“Alright,” I say, standing. “Let’s get you to your room.”
“What? No,” Knox waves me off. “It’s still early. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I am.”
“Knox.” I step closer, lower my voice. “People are watching.”
That gets through. He glances around, noticing for the first time how the room has turned toward us. His jaw tightens, and for a second I think he’s going to argue. But then he deflates and nods.
“Okay. Fine.”
I reach out, gently take him by the elbow. He lets me guide him toward the exit without pulling away. He leans into me, and I adjust, keeping him steady as we move through the lobby.
The elevator is empty when we step inside.
“What’s your room number?” I ask.
He thinks for a second, brow furrowed. “Six-oh-two.”
I nod and hit the button for the sixth floor.
The doors slide shut, sealing us in, and we ride up in silence. Knox leans against the wall, eyes half-closed, and I keep my distance.
When the doors open, I guide him down the hallway. Room 602 is near the end, and Knox fumbles in his pockets as we approach. He pats his jeans, checks his back pockets, then curses under his breath.
“What?” I ask.
“I forgot my key card.”
I close my eyes briefly. “Where is it?”
“Brooks’ room. I left it there.”
I frown. “What were you doing in Brooks’ room?”
“We met some girls at the bar.” He grins, loose and uncontrolled again. “Continued the party at the Hilton. It was fun.”
I let that sit for a second longer than I should, then set it aside. Not my business who he parties with.
“Alright,” I say. “Let’s go get it.”
“No,” he shakes his head. “Can’t. Brooks has company now. We can’t go in there.”
I sigh. “Then let’s go to the front desk and get another key.”
“Yes.” He nods enthusiastically, then immediately wobbles on his feet.
I steady him with a hand on his arm. He’s not going to make it to the lobby. Not like this. He’ll probably trip down the stairs or say something stupid to the front desk clerk, or worse, make a scene. We’re back to the same problem of people watching and filming.
I make a decision I already don’t like.
“Let’s go to my room,” I say.
He stares at me. “What?”
“My room. I’ll make you coffee. Once you feel better, we can go get the key.”
“Coffee,” he repeats, as if he’s testing the word.
“Yes.”
He considers this, weight shifting, and then nods. “Okay.”
We take the elevator back down to the fourth floor. I unlock my door with one hand, the other hovering near him in case he stumbles. He follows me inside, the loud energy gone out of him now.
The room is standard. Queen bed with white sheets, desk by the window, bathroom to the left.
Knox stops just inside the doorway, swaying as he gets his bearings. He takes in the bed, the desk, the curtains pulled shut against the night. He says nothing, standing there like he’s trying to remember why he’s here.
“Sit,” I tell him, gesturing toward the bed.
He hesitates, then moves. His steps are careful, as if he’s concentrating on each one. When he reaches the bed, he sits heavily on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight.
I turn away and head to the coffee maker on the desk. It’s one of those small single-serve machines hotels always have. There are coffee capsules next to it, along with sugar and creamer. I grab one of the capsules and pop it in, pressing the button.
The machine makes a hissing sound, then starts pouring coffee.
I stand there watching it, arms crossed, waiting. The coffee streams into the glass espresso cup, and the refreshing smell fills the space.
Behind me, Knox is quiet. I glance over my shoulder and find him lying sideways on my bed, fast asleep.
He’s on top of the covers, curled on his side, one arm tucked under his head like a pillow. His face is turned toward the wall, profile soft in the dim light from the desk lamp. His chest rises and falls in the slow, even rhythm of deep sleep.
He was sitting up thirty seconds ago, awake, coherent enough to follow instructions. And now he’s out cold.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say into the silent room.