The room went quiet for a beat, and then someone laughed again.
I stared into the narrow gap of the locker door, barely seeing the blurred edge of a bench and the shadow of someone's shoes.
A game.
My entire life had become a joke to them.
My shoulders started shaking before I could stop them. I bent forward, trying to hold in the sound, trying not to fall apart in the middle of a room full of people who had just destroyed me.
Then Jessica said something that made my blood run colder than the ice outside.
"She was always so desperate to be chosen," she said. "I figured she'd believe anything."
The silence after that felt endless.
I could not move.
Not when the voices laughed.
Not when the footsteps started to fade.
Not when the door finally clicked shut and I was left alone with my own breathing.
I slid down the inside of the locker until I was crouched on the floor, crying in a way that made my whole body ache.
I hated them.
I hated Jessica for smiling while she did it.
I hated Catherine for helping.
I hated Mitchell for looking at me like I had never mattered at all.
And worst of all, I hated myself for believing any of them.
"I'm such a fool," I whispered into my knees. "How could I be this stupid?"
The words broke in my throat, but they were true.
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to breathe through the pain, though it felt too large for my body. Too sharp. Too deep.
That was when I heard footsteps again.
This time they were slower.
Closer.
I stiffened.
The locker door opened just enough to let in a sliver of light, and I looked up through tears I couldn't seem to stop.
A man stood in front of me.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with the calm confidence of someone who never needed to raise his voice to command a room. A gold medal hung around his neck. In one hand, he held a massive trophy. In the other, a floral handkerchief, offered quietly, almost gently.
His black hair was neatly cut. His blue eyes were sharp enough to be intimidating, but there was no cruelty in them.
Only attention.
I took the handkerchief with trembling fingers and wiped my face before I could think too hard about how ridiculous I must look. He watched me with a stillness that somehow made me feel less exposed.
Then he held out his hand.
I stared at it for a second before taking it.
He pulled me up carefully, like he understood that I might come apart if he moved too fast.
"You are not a mistake," he said.
His voice was low, calm, steady.
I blinked at him, too stunned to respond.
"You did nothing wrong," he added. "And you should not speak to yourself like that."
Another sob hit me, smaller this time, but still impossible to hold back.
He hesitated for just a moment, then placed a hand lightly between my shoulder blades, a brief grounding touch that asked for nothing.
"Breathe," he said.
I did.
A little.
He looked at me properly then, as if memorizing the damage and refusing to look away from it. There was something disarming about his expression, something that kept him from feeling like a stranger even though he absolutely was.
"Coach Jeremiah," I whispered.
He gave the smallest hint of a smile. "So you know who I am."
"The entire city knows who you are."
His mouth curved a little more, but the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. "That is unfortunate."
Despite everything, a startled laugh escaped me.
He noticed it. I could tell.
"My boyfriend is—" I stopped myself before the lie could leave my mouth, then corrected quickly, my throat tightening again. "My ex-boyfriend is a huge fan of yours."
Jeremiah's gaze sharpened at that, not unkindly, just observant. "Ex?"
I looked down at the handkerchief in my hands. "Yes."
He was silent for a moment. Not awkwardly. Thoughtfully.
Then he tipped his head toward the corridor behind him, where the muffled echo of the arena still lived.
"Come on," he said. "You should not be alone right now."
I looked up at him, confused and wary and too hurt to pretend otherwise. "Why are you even here?"
His eyes moved to the medal at his neck, then to the trophy in his hand, and back to me.
His expression shifted by the smallest degree, like he was deciding how much truth to give.
"That," he said quietly, "is supposed to be my cue."