But I did anyway.
A photo—blurry, taken from too far away, mid-fight. My face caught in the split second before impact, eyes narrowed, mouth hard. The angle made me look bigger, darker, more vicious.
A caption underneath from some account with a blue check:
MÜLLER LOSES IT AGAIN.
FROSTHAWKS “ENFORCER” CAN’T CONTROL HIMSELF.
Comments already piling up.
Trade him.
Trash.
Love him.
He could break me in half.
I volunteer as tribute!
Ty leaned over my shoulder, reading. “Oh my God. They’re obsessed with you. Like—clinically.”
Oliver’s gaze went to my hands. “You good?”
I flexed my fingers again. The pain grounded me. Kept me from thinking too hard about the part that hurt more: how quickly the world decided what you were.
“I’m fine,” I repeated, and Ty made a face.
Jonah’s voice drifted over. “Want ice for that?”
I shook my head. “Trainer will handle it.”
Ben Holliday—head trainer, perpetually tired, perpetually unimpressed—appeared at the end of the row like he’d been summoned by my stubbornness alone. He took one look at my hands, then at my face.
“You bleed on my floor again,” Ben warned, “and I’m charging you.”
“Send the invoice to Rawlings,” I deadpanned.
Ben’s mouth twitched. That was as close as he got to smiling.
He wrapped my knuckles with practiced efficiency, cold pack pressed into my palm. The chill bit deep, and it felt good. Like punishment melting into relief.
Across the room, Cam laughed at something someone said. The sound was easy, natural. Like the earlier tension hadn’t happened. Like I hadn’t been carved down to a single sharp truth.
I didn’t watch him. Watching would make it real.
Instead, I stood and headed for the showers.
Hot water pounded my skin, washing away sweat and tape residue and the faint metallic tang that always clung after a fight. I scrubbed harder than necessary. My shoulder protested. My hands throbbed.
I kept scrubbing anyway.
When I came back out, towel around my waist, the room had shifted into postgame decompression. Guys joked. Music got louder. Someone threw a wad of tape at Ty and missed.
A staffer in a suit hovered near the media door, looking harried.
PR.