Something softened in his expression. "Neither am I."
We stood there for a moment, the lobby noise fading into background static. I wanted to touch him—wanted to reach out and press my palm against his chest the way I had last night, feel the impossible cold of him and know it was real.
But we were surrounded by teammates and staff and anyone with a camera phone, so I just nodded instead.
"I'll see you at dinner?" I asked.
"Yeah." His hand brushed mine, so quick I might have imagined it. "See you then."
He walked away, and I watched him go, my skin tingling where he'd touched me.
New habits, I reminded myself. Starting now.
I made it to my room, dropped my bag on the bed, and was about to start unpacking when my phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
My stomach dropped before I even read it.
I need to speak to you once you get rid of the steroid-fueled jackass.
The words blurred, then sharpened. I read them again. And again.
Gavin. It had to be Gavin. The same possessive, threatening tone he'd used in the parking lot.
My hands shook as I typed back:Leave me alone.
The response came immediately:Don't be an infant. I need to talk. You owe me that much.
The shame hit again—I'd been trained. I could identify abuse patterns in patients with my eyes closed—the way they flinched at loud voices, the way they minimized injuries, the way they defended the person hurting them with that desperate, rehearsed certainty that made your chest ache. I'd sat with women in the ER who told mehe didn't mean itandit was my faultandyou don't understand, he loves me, and I'd held their hands and gently, patiently helped them see what they couldn't see from the inside.
And then I'd gone home to Gavin and done exactly the same thing.
Not the hitting. He never hit me. That was the part I kept getting stuck on, the excuse I'd built my denial around like a fortress. He never raised a hand. He never had to. He had words, and words were blunt instruments in the right hands—capable of removing vital parts of you without leaving a visible mark.
It started so small I didn't even notice. A comment about my clothes—you're not wearing that, are you?—delivered with just enough humor that pushing back felt like overreacting. Then my friends.They don't really get you, Cin. Not like I do.Then my schedule, my hobbies, my opinions, all of it gradually reshaped to fit the mold he'd decided I should occupy.
He'd tell me things that contradicted my own memory, and when I objected, he'd look at me with that patient, pitying expression.That's not what happened, babe. You're remembering it wrong. You do this sometimes.And I'd think—maybe I do. Maybe I'm the unreliable one. Maybe he sees me more clearly than I see myself.
Because that was what I'd been trained to believe long before Gavin ever touched me. Not at work. At work I was confident, but home was a completely different story.
I sat on the edge of the hotel bed and stared at the generic carpet and thought about my parents. About the night my father had stood in the kitchen doorway, face empty, voice flat, and told me I was an abomination. About my mother folding my clothes with trembling hands, tucking in my toothbrush, her tears falling on my favorite hoodie while she packed me out of my own life.
I stared at the screen, ice spreading through my veins that had nothing to do with Taz's temperature. This was different. This was Gavin refusing to accept that I'd moved on. That I had someone who actually cared about me.
My thumb hovered over Taz's contact. I should tell him. Should let him know what was happening.
But the old instincts were too strong—the ones that said handle it yourself, don't be a burden, don't give anyone a reason to leave.
I deleted the messages instead and then blocked the number.
And tried very hard to pretend my hands weren't still shaking.
The next morning started wrong.
I felt it before I saw it—that prickle at the back of my neck, the sense of too many eyes in one place. The hotel lobby was crowded when we came down for the team breakfast, players milling around in various states of alertness, staff checking schedules on tablets.
And then the doors opened.