Page 17

Alex Sebring

The locker room smells of sweat, frustration, and stale adrenaline.

Nobody’s talking. Not really, only a few curses muttered under breath. A slam of a locker door. Tape ripped from bruised skin. But mostly that weighty, quiet kind of defeat that settles behind your ribs and stays there long after the scoreboard’s gone dark.

I don’t bother showering. I wasn’t in the game, only suited up on the sidelines, headset on, trying to stay sharp. Trying not to think too hard about how close I’m getting.

But tonight… yeah. That was brutal.

Our half-fly had an off night. Bad reads, messy kicks, hesitation in every play. I can already predict what people will say: he cracked under pressure, he’s pissed I’m back at practice breathing down his neck, he’s already halfway out the door and doesn’t realize it yet.

There’s truth to all of those things.

Thoughts get in your head. Threats. Doubts. You second-guess yourself and then you’re two plays behind and bleeding confidence with every drive. I’ve been there. Hell, I’ve lived it.

So no, I don’t judge him.

But I know what it means. The talk is already starting. Coaches whispering. Journalists sniffing around. Fans posting clips of old games with my name in the captions.

His poor performance tonight may push me back into the game sooner rather than later.

It’s a weird thing to feel sorry for the guy.

I lean against the edge of my locker, hands braced on either side, and take a long breath. This isn’t the way I want this to happen. I don’t want my comeback to be someone else’s collapse. But that’s the game. It doesn’t wait. It doesn’t care.

And I want back in.

My body’s still making its comeback. It’s close. Almost ready. My lungs are stronger. My ankle holds. The fire in my chest is lit again—and I’m starving for it. Not the glory. Not even the pay. Only the game. The brutal, beautiful rhythm of it. Contact. Movement. Precision. Sacrifice.

I want to earn that spot again. Not inherit it because it was once mine.

The room clears out, and a few guys head toward the showers. A couple throw on clean shirts and make their way to the post-game lounge where the wives and families are waiting.

I’m not sore, not battered, not bruised. And somehow, that stings more than it should. But I’ll be back. Not in theory. Not in whispers. For real.

Soon.

When I am, I won’t be the shadow on the pitch. I’ll be The Wall again.

The hum of the post-match lounge hits before I even walk through the double doors—laughter rolling low, glasses clinking, the occasional cheer rising from one of the flat-screens replaying highlights from the game.

Music plays loud enough to fill the space but not loud enough to drown out the conversations buzzing across the wide, open room.

It’s familiar and easy. What you’d expect after a home match, win or lose. But tonight, the vibe’s different. Duller at the edges. Everyone’s trying a little too hard to pretend the scoreboard didn’t say what it did.

No one says it out loud, but I know what’s in the air.

Disappointment. Discord. Doubt.

I spot her before I even step all the way inside. She’s standing near one of the tall cocktail tables, glass in hand, laughing at something Julia just said. Megan, next to her, nods along.

Magnolia is radiant. Unbothered. Her eyes scan the door just as I walk in, and the moment she sees me, she lights up, her entire body shifting. She crosses the floor, and when she reaches me, she doesn’t hesitate. Arms around my neck, lips on mine.

She kisses me like I just came back from war.

I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her in tighter, breathing her in—vanilla and red wine and something that’s only her.

The crowd fades. The noise softens. For a second, it’s just us.

When she pulls back, she smiles up at me, hands still looped around my neck. “Hello… The Wall.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “You heard that, huh?”

“Umm… everyone heard that. You’re still the one they chant for.”

“I just hope I don’t let them down when I’m back on the pitch.”

“Not possible.”

I press one last kiss to her forehead before she takes my hand and leads me toward the corner where the other wives have gathered.

“Is Bradley okay?” she asks, tipping her head toward the screen across the room, where a replay of the hit is already looping.

I snort. “He’ll feel that hit tomorrow, but he’s fine. Bit rattled maybe, but he’ll walk it off.”

Her brows lift. “That tackle looked brutal.”

“Yeah, well… he was running his mouth before the whistle. Picked the wrong forward to talk shit to and got flattened for it.”

She hums. “Ah. Got it.”

“Consider it a lesson in consequences.”

“Do you talk shit when you’re playing?”

“ We all talk shit.”

“Getting your clock cleaned… is that something I should start preparing for?”

“Without a doubt.”

She smirks, but then her gaze shifts, something sharper flickering behind her eyes. “Speaking of talking shit… there’s something I need to tell you.”

I go still, and my stomach tightens. “Please don’t tell me that fucker was in the suite during the game.”

“Okay. I won’t tell you that fucker was in the suite during the game.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, jaw clenching. “What did he do this time?”

Magnolia takes a slow breath, setting her glass down on the high table behind us. “He came up while I was getting a drink.”

My pulse is already thudding at the base of my neck.

“He made some stupid comments—something cheeky about how you’re retired and it’s cute people are still chanting for you.” Her mouth curves in a humorless smile. “Typical Tyson. Same shit but different words.”

I bite down on the urge to ask what else he said. I already know it gets worse.

“A thought occurred to me. He always does this—finds us in some public place, surrounded by people. He counts on us keeping quiet. Not making a scene. But why are we the ones staying quiet when he’s the one harassing us?”

Crowds are his favorite MO.

“So, this time, I didn’t stay quiet. I raised my voice. I said everything I’ve been biting down for months and called him out in front of everyone. Told them he was threatening us. Stalking us. And I made sure they all heard me.”

Well, hell.

“Tyson couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He didn’t enjoy being the one on display. Didn’t care for people seeing what he really is. I think I found the one thing he hates more than you—being exposed. Being humbled.”

I look at her. Really look at her. And all I can feel is awe.

“Are you embarrassed I made a scene in front of everyone?” she asks, searching my face. “Because if you are?—”

“No.” The word is immediate. Absolute. I step in, press my forehead to hers. “Embarrassed? Babe, you could never embarrass me.”

My voice goes rough. “You stood up to him and protected both of us. You told the truth, and that was brave as hell. I’m proud of you.”

Her eyes glisten a little, but she doesn’t cry. She just breathes deeper, my words giving her permission to stand taller.

“You are so fucking sexy right now.” I brush a thumb under her jaw and lean in, voice dropping. “You want to get out of here?”

She nods, soft and sure. “I sure do.”

I smile. “Good. Because I want to take you home…” My mouth grazes hers. “And fuck you until the sun comes up.”

A breathless laugh. “Promise?”

“Oh yeah.”

No goodbyes. We leave hand in hand, no need for words.

There’s only one place we’re headed, and we both know it ends with her beneath me, moaning my name.