Page 35

35

The roar of the crowd still hums in the air, vibrating through the pavement outside the arena, but I barely hear it. My thoughts are stuck on Ryan.

I can’t shake the image of him—blood streaking down his face, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might break his own teeth, shoulders wound like a live wire as he stormed up the ramp. The chair shot replayed in my mind on an endless loop, the sickening crack of metal against bone, the way his body had swayed for just a second before he caught himself.

I’ve scoured backstage, sent him a couple of texts. Nothing. No response.

Annika, on the other hand, is buzzing, practically bouncing beside me as she talks a mile a minute. “Nat, that was insane . Like, holy shit, Travis Moreno? That man is a walking thirst trap. And the energy in there? I thought my soul left my body at least twice.”

I force a smile, nodding like I’m listening, but my gaze keeps flicking toward the arena doors. Waiting. Hoping.

Ryan and I had talked about tonight before the show. The plan was simple—I’d go out with Annika, let him do his thing. But that was before . Before I saw him take that brutal chair shot. Before I saw the fury rolling off him like a storm about to break.

I should go back inside. Find him. Check on him .

But I don’t want to be that girl. The one who pushes when she should step back. The one who smothers.

I inhale sharply, shoving the urge down, and let Annika tug me into an Uber.

The bar is chaos .

Music pounds from the speakers, the bass thrumming in my ribs. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, liquor, and fried food. Laughter and shouted conversations swirl around us, energy vibrating off every surface.

Annika is in her element, sliding seamlessly into a booth, already chatting up some of the UXW crew, feeding off the high of the night. Drinks are ordered, glasses clink, the world keeps spinning.

But my phone stays in my hand, the screen dark. No new messages.

I try to lose myself in the noise, to let the buzz of conversation pull me in, but I keep replaying every second of that match. The chair shot. The blood. The way Ryan disappeared afterward, radio silent.

A familiar presence slides into the seat beside me. Travis Moreno. He tosses back a sip of his drink before leveling me with a look—one that’s too knowing, too perceptive.

"Hey, you good?" His voice is easy, casual, but his eyes don’t miss a thing.

I shrug, trying for nonchalance, but it crumbles in an instant. "I don’t know." I exhale, running my thumb over the condensation on my glass. "That chair shot was bad, Travis. And he just—he didn’t answer my texts. He always answers my texts."

Travis leans back, slinging an arm over the booth, his mouth pulling into something that isn’t quite a smirk. “Losing gets in his head. Always has. After a night like this, he usually just needs time to cool off.”

I nod, but the knot in my stomach stays tight.

Ryan isn’t the kind of guy who shrugs off failure. He’s relentless, obsessive about being the best. A loss like tonight? It’s fuel . The kind that burns hot and dangerous.

"I hope you’re right," I murmur, fingers tapping against my glass.

Travis studies me for a beat, then sighs, voice dipping lower. “Listen. I’ve known Ryan a long time—long enough to tell you that when he’s pissed, he doesn’t want company. He needs space. Let him breathe.”

I nod again, pretending like that settles something inside me.

It doesn’t.

I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, needing a second to clear my head. But the moment I push open the door, I freeze.

Chrissy.

She’s standing near the mirror, reapplying her lip gloss, and the second she spots me, her entire demeanor shifts. That fake, overly sweet smile disappears, replaced with something sharp and calculating.

“Well, well, well,” she says, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. She flicks her long blonde hair over her shoulder, eyes sweeping over me with disdain. “Guess things between you and Ryan didn’t last long, huh?”

My stomach drops, but I school my expression.

Chrissy smirks. “Haven’t seen him tonight. Seems like I’ll be getting that call sooner rather than later.”

Something inside me snaps.

I narrow my eyes, arms crossing over my chest. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to get jealous?”

She laughs—a mean, condescending sound—and takes a slow step toward me. “Sweetheart, you don’t get it, do you?” She tilts her head, mock sympathy dripping from her tone. “Ryan doesn’t break things off himself. He just disappears when he’s done. I figured you’d last longer, but hey—you wouldn’t be the first.”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut.

I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s trying to get in my head, trying to make me doubt everything between Ryan and me.

But why haven’t I heard from him?

I hold her gaze, refusing to let her see the cracks forming in my confidence.

“I’m not worried about that,” I say smoothly, keeping my voice calm. “Ryan and I are good.”

Chrissy just snorts, giving me one last once-over before flipping her hair and strutting toward the door. She’s already decided she’s won.

The second the door swings shut behind her, I finally breathe.

I grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection.

Do I believe her?

No.

But the seed of doubt is planted now, sinking its roots in deep.

I glance down at my phone, my hands trembling. Before I can talk myself out of it, I type out a text.

Are you awake? I don’t think I want to spend the night at the hotel anymore… I just need to see you.

I hit send, my heart hammering.

I stare at the screen, waiting.

Three dots appear.

Then they vanish.

My stomach twists.

I inhale sharply, forcing myself to pull it together.

When I return to the table, Annika immediately clocks my expression. Her eyes narrow, and she sets down her drink carefully.

“Okay, what’s going on? Spill it,” she demands.

I swallow hard, gripping the edge of the table. “Chrissy,” I mutter, then sigh. “She said Ryan always disappears when he’s done with someone. Do you think that’s what he’s doing? I haven’t heard from him all night.”

Annika’s jaw tightens. “That bitch.” She turns toward the bar and waves over the bartender. “You know what we need? Tequila. Lots and lots of tequila.”

The bartender sets down three shot glasses, and Annika, Travis, and I all toss one back together. The tequila burns down my throat, warm and numbing.

It helps a little.

But not enough.

I still want him.

I still want answers.

I just need to see him, or hear his voice, something.

And yet… my phone stays silent.