7. Maddie #2
I smile. I nod. I answer back. Everything about it looks normal. It feels normal. Until it doesn’t. My phone buzzes in my hand, the vibration sharp enough to pull me out of the rhythm of it.
Tyler:
Where you at?
I stare at the message longer than I should, my thumb hovering over the screen before I finally type back.
Me:
Just finishing up. I’ll be there soon.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Tyler:
You said that 20 minutes ago.
My stomach tightens, not sharply, not enough to stop me from breathing, but enough that I feel it settle there like something waiting.
I glance down the hallway. There are still guys inside. I can hear them. Voices echoing out from the locker room, the scrape of something against the floor, the low hum of movement that hasn’t finished yet. Still not done.
Me:
I’m heading out now.
I lock my phone before I can overthink it and push myself off the wall, shifting my weight forward, letting my body follow through before my mind has the chance to catch up.
This is the part I’ve worked on. The part I’ve told myself I can change.
You can leave. You’ve stayed long enough.
They’re fine. I start walking. Each step feels measured in a way I don’t like noticing, like I’m paying attention to something that should come naturally.
The exit is right there, just ahead, the doors standing open enough to show the darker hallway beyond, the part that leads out of this building and back into everything else waiting for me.
It’s not far. It shouldn’t feel like this.
My grip tightens slightly around my phone as I keep moving, forcing my focus forward, on the door, on the fact that there’s nothing stopping me from walking through it.
Everything is fine. Nothing is wrong. My chest tightens anyway.
Not enough to panic. Not enough to make me stop.
Just enough to make me aware of it. Just enough that my steps slow without me meaning them to.
I reach the door. My hand lifts. Fingers brushing the handle—and then stopping.
There’s no sharp break. No sudden fear that hits all at once. It’s quieter than that.
My body just… doesn’t follow through.
Like something in me pulls tight and refuses to let the movement finish, like stepping through that door means leaving something unfinished behind, something I can’t see but feel anyway. Leaving something to happen to them and I'm not here to help them.
I close my eyes for half a second, my fingers curling slightly against the metal before I let my hand fall away.
Turn. Just to check. Just for a second. There are still voices.
Still movement. Still people inside. Still not done.
The tension in my chest loosens just enough to let me breathe again, and I hate that it does.
I step back from the door, retreating to the wall like I never left it, like this is where I was always going to end up anyway. Because it is. It always is.
The hallway continues to empty, slower now, the energy fading with each person that leaves.
The noise softens. The movement thins. Each guy that walks past chips away at something inside me, easing it piece by piece, but not enough.
Not yet. My phone buzzes again. I don’t look at it this time. I already know.
Instead, I focus on the hallway, on the space between the locker room and the exit, on the quiet calculation I’ve learned to make without realizing it.
Just a few more. Just wait. You can leave when they’re all gone.
Time stretches in a way that feels longer than it should, the minutes dragging just enough to make everything else feel distant.
I shift my weight against the wall, my fingers tapping lightly against the side of my phone, my attention locked in one direction.
And then—the last one. The new guy. He steps out slower than the others, a trash bag slung over his shoulder, a couple of sticks tucked under his arm, his attention still half on the locker room behind him like he’s making sure he didn’t miss anything.
He looks up when he sees me, surprise flickering across his face. “You still here?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head slightly as he adjusts the bag on his shoulder. “You know you don’t have to wait, right?”
I don’t answer that. I just shrug, because there isn’t a way to explain it that doesn’t sound like something I don’t want to say out loud. He watches me for a second longer, like he’s thinking about it, then nods once.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s go.” Simple. Like it was never a question. He would never walk out without me.
I push off the wall and fall into step beside him, the two of us heading toward the exit together, his pace easy, not rushing, not dragging.
Just steady. The doors come into view. Closer.
Closer. And…my chest doesn’t tighten. There’s no hesitation when we reach them, no moment where my hand stalls or my body refuses to follow through.
He pushes one open, holding it without looking back, and I step through with him like it’s nothing.
Like it should always be this easy. The night air hits different.
Cooler. Quieter. Real in a way the inside of the arena never is.
And just like that—it’s gone. The weight.
The pull. That tight, quiet thing sitting in my chest loosens completely, like it was waiting for this moment and only this moment to let go.
I exhale without meaning to, a slow breath leaving me as I step farther out into the open space.
“You good?” he asks, glancing down at me briefly.
“Yeah,” I say, and this time it comes out without hesitation. “I’m good.”
He nods, satisfied with that, and keeps moving toward the lot.
“Have a good night,” he adds before breaking off toward his car.
“You too.” I watch him go for a second, then turn toward mine, the quiet settling around me in a way that feels steady instead of empty.
I slide into the driver’s seat, closing the door behind me, the sound sealing me off from everything else.
For a second, I just sit there. Then I pull my phone from my hand and unlock it. The screen lights up immediately. Three messages.
Seriously Maddie?
We’re not waiting all night.
You coming or not?
I stare at them longer than I mean to, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Then I type back.
On my way.
I toss the phone into the passenger seat, start the car, and pull out of the lot.