Day seven, and I'm barely functioning.
Practice continues whether my heart is broken or not, and the team needs schedules coordinated, equipment inventoried, travel arrangements confirmed for the off-season showcase. I move through the facility on autopilot, my body performing tasks my mind can't process, smiling when spoken to and responding with words that sound normal even if they feel hollow.
Nobody asks if I'm okay, which is a small mercy. Either they haven't noticed the dark circles under my eyes and the mechanical quality of my movements, or they've decided it's none of their business. I prefer it that way—the last thing I need is sympathy from people who don't know the full story, who can't possibly understand what it means to lose the same person twice.
I'm checking inventory in the equipment room, counting basketballs I've already counted three times, when footsteps echo behind me. I don't turn around, assuming it's one of the assistant coaches needing something, but the voice that speaks makes me freeze.
"Damn, Calloway." Marcus leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying me with an expression I can't read. "You look like shit."
"Thanks." I turn back to my clipboard, not in the mood for whatever this is. "Your support means everything."
He doesn't leave, which is annoying. Instead, he pushes off the doorframe and walks further into the room, positioning himself where I can't ignore him without being obvious about it. His eyes travel over my face, taking in the evidence of sleepless nights and too much crying.
"Trouble in paradise?" His voice is casual, but there's something underneath—not hostility, exactly. More like curiosity.
"There's no paradise." I mark another row of basketballs on my sheet, refusing to meet his eyes. "Never was."
"Huh." He crosses his arms again, head tilting. "Weird, because last I saw, you two were making out on national television after the championship. Looked pretty paradise-like from where I was standing."
"Things change." The words come out flat, exhausted. "People leave. Life goes on."
Marcus is quiet for a moment, and I can feel him watching me in that assessing way he used to do when we were together—like he's trying to figure out what I'm really thinking beneath the surface. It used to make me uncomfortable, that scrutiny. Now I'm too tired to care.
"Look," he says finally, shifting his weight like the words are costing him something, "I'm not gonna pretend I'm not enjoying watching Reyes's perfect little romance fall apart. After everything that happened, after the way you looked at him while you were still with me—yeah, part of me thinks this is exactly what he deserves."
I laugh despite myself, the sound bitter and sharp. "Is there a point to this, Marcus? Because if you came here to gloat, you can save it. I'm already aware that my life is a disaster."
"That's the thing, though." He uncrosses his arms, something shifting in his expression. "You look actually miserable. Not the fake-miserable you used to do with me when you were already checked out—going through the motions, saying the right things while your mind was somewhere else. This is different."
I finally look at him, really look, and I'm surprised by what I see. There's no satisfaction in his face, no smug vindication at my suffering. If anything, he looks uncomfortable, like his own feelings are betraying him.
"I don't know what you want me to say." My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
"I guess I'm saying..." He pauses, runs a hand through his hair. "You never looked at me the way you look at him. Even when we were good, even when I thought we were happy—you never looked at me like I was the only person in the room. And yeah, it pissed me off. Made me feel like I was competing with a ghost I couldn't even see."
"Marcus—"
"Let me finish." He holds up a hand. "I thought it would feel good, watching you hurt the way I hurt. Thought I'd finally get some kind of closure, some satisfaction from seeing the golden couple crash and burn." He shrugs, and there's something almost vulnerable in the gesture. "But watching you now, looking like you haven't slept in a week, barely holding it together—it doesn't feel as satisfying as I thought it would."
I stare at him, not sure what to do with this version of Marcus. The one who's being honest instead of hostile, who's offering something that almost looks like understanding instead of resentment.
"I don't know what happened between you two," he continues, "and honestly, I don't need to know. But whatever it was, you'll survive it." He pushes off from where he's been leaning against the equipment shelves. "You survived me, right? You'll survive him too."
He walks toward the door, and I should let him go—should accept the unexpected kindness and move on with my day. But something makes me speak.
"Marcus." He pauses, looking back. "Thank you. For... I don't know. Not being awful about this."
He shrugs again, a ghost of his old smile crossing his face. "Yeah, well. Don't get used to it."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone in the equipment room with my clipboard and my heartbreak and the strange realization that people can surprise you, even when you think you know exactly who they are.
I finish the inventory on autopilot, file the paperwork, and drive home as the sun starts to set. My apartment feels emptier than usual, the silence oppressive in a way it never was before Ethan came back into my life. I heat up leftover soup I don't taste and scroll through job postings I don't apply to and try not to look at my phone every thirty seconds.
At nine o'clock, I give up pretending I'm going to do anything productive and curl up on the couch with a blanket and his hoodie that I still haven't returned to the box. The fabric is starting to lose his scent, and the thought makes my chest ache in ways I don't want to examine.
A knock at the door startles me so badly I nearly fall off the couch.
I freeze, heart pounding, because no one visits me at nine on a Tuesday without texting first. Monica would have called, my parents would have sent a formal notification, and anyone else would have assumed I wasn't home. The knock comes again, louder this time, more insistent.
I cross to the door on unsteady legs, half-convinced I'm imagining things, and look through the peephole.
Ethan stands in the hallway, looking like he hasn't slept in a week. His hair is disheveled, his jaw covered in stubble, his clothes wrinkled like he's been wearing them for days. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and there's something desperate in his expression—exhausted and raw and nothing like the confident athlete I'm used to seeing.
I yank the door open before I can think better of it, and the words come out sharp, angry, everything I've been holding back for seven days.
"Where the hell have you been?"
He doesn't flinch at my tone, doesn't step back from the anger radiating off me. Instead, he meets my eyes with something that looks like hope and fear tangled together, his voice rough when he finally speaks.
"Let me explain. All of it. Please."