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The locker room’s almost empty now, just a few echoes of conversation drifting from down the hall. I take my time, moving slower than usual, tying and retying my shoelaces, wiping down my gear even though it’s already clean. Anything to delay the inevitable.

Travis sits across from me, watching. I don’t have to look up to feel his eyes on me, full of some quiet understanding I’m not ready to deal with. Finally, he breaks the silence.

“She’s not going to be there,” he says softly. “You can go home.”

I look over my shoulder, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Natalie. She left early. Said she wasn’t feeling well, packed up her stuff from your place and left the key. Figured she was done waiting around for you.”

For a second, I just stare at him, processing, and then the words hit like a punch to the gut. "And you’re just now telling me this?" I can't help the anger as it leaks from my words.

Travis shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about his expression. “She asked me not to. Begged me, actually. Said she couldn’t face you. Ryan, man, she looked… crushed. I don’t know what the hell’s going on between you two, but whatever it is, you need to fix it.”

I feel the bench beneath me, solid and cold, grounding me while the rest of my thoughts spin. “I can’t think about that right now,” I mutter, not looking at him. “I have to keep my head clear, focus on the match, my career. Everything’s hanging in the balance.”

“Your career, huh?” Travis’s voice has an edge to it. “Look, I get it, man. I know this title means the world to you, but you’re not a machine, Ryan. You’re a person. And you seemed pretty damn happy these past few weeks with Natalie around. What the hell happened?”

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to lash out. “I already told you; I need to focus. This shot… I might never get it again. If I mess this up, that’s it.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he says, leaning forward, his voice dropping low. “But you’re making it sound like it’s got to be one or the other. Like you either get the title, or you get Natalie. Why? Who put that in your head? Who said you can’t have both? You think your any less distracted now? You’re more distracted than you were before.”

I’m silent, clenching my fists, every muscle in my body tensed. Because he’s right, and that’s exactly what it feels like. Like I can only choose one. Like anything outside the ring is just noise, a distraction, something that’ll weigh me down if I let it. But the thought of Natalie… the way she made everything feel real, like there was more to life than just fighting and winning... I’m the one who pushed her away, and now all I feel is the emptiness where she used to be.

Travis sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, he finally stands up, heading for the door. “You know where to find me if you want to talk. But, Ryan… just remember you’re the one who has to live with your decisions. Not your critics, not management, not the boss, not the damn fans. Just you.”

He leaves, and the silence crashes down around me, heavy and suffocating. I stay still for a second, the empty locker room suddenly feeling too tight, like the walls are closing in. The weight of everything I’ve tried to bury, to ignore, it’s pressing in on me, relentless.

And then I explode.

I slam my fist into the locker, the metallic clang reverberating in the empty room, the pain shooting through my hand sharp and satisfying. I kick over the bench, grabbing a stray water bottle and hurling it across the room, growling as it smashes against the wall. My breaths come fast, heavy, like I can’t get enough air, like I can’t fill the gaping emptiness that Natalie’s absence has left inside me.

I stop, chest heaving, fists aching, and lean against the locker, forehead pressed to the cold metal. I have to pull myself together. I have to get my head straight. This is what I wanted, right? This focus, this tunnel vision. Nothing else should matter.

But as I make the drive back to my house, my mind won’t stop racing. Every mile feels like an eternity, every stoplight a reminder that I’m heading back to an empty house, a place that’s suddenly too damn quiet. Part of me hopes she’ll be there, that I’ll walk through the door and find her curled up on the couch, waiting for me. But I know better. She’s gone. Maybe it’s for the best.

The key she left is sitting on the counter, a small, cold reminder of how quickly everything unraveled. Her things are gone. Not even a stray hair tie, no trace of her lingering scent in the air. It’s like she was never here at all.

I slump against the counter, my phone clutched in my hand. I check it again, even though I know there won’t be anything from her. I’ve ignored her last couple of messages, thinking I was protecting her, protecting myself. But now, looking at the empty screen, I feel like the world’s biggest coward.

I walk through the house, every room feeling emptier than the last. The bed looks untouched, the sheets still rumpled from when we last slept there together. I sit on the edge of it, the silence pressing down on me, memories flashing in my mind, vivid and relentless.

I think about the way she looked at me, the way she smiled, soft and genuine. The way she fit against me, like she was meant to be there. I can still smell her perfume, the faintest trace clinging to my sheets, and it’s enough to drive me mad. I close my eyes, remembering the warmth of her skin, the sound of her laughter, the feel of her hand in mine. She was so easy to be around, so real. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t just a machine built for fighting. I was… something more. With her.

It’s well past midnight when I finally lie down, staring at the ceiling, sleep nowhere in sight. I keep running through the past few weeks, the moments we shared, the way she looked at me like I was someone worth caring about. And I wonder if I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.

I reach for my phone again, the urge to text her almost overwhelming. I want to tell her that I miss her, that I need her, that I’m sorry for being an idiot. But when I check the time, it’s 3:36 a.m. I stop myself, clenching the phone tightly. I can’t do that to her. It’s not fair, not after I pushed her away, ignored her, made her feel like she didn’t matter.

I put the phone down, swallowing the words I want to say. I’ve hurt her enough. She deserves better than someone who only realizes what he has once it’s too late. But as I lie there, feeling the emptiness settle over me, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just lost the best thing that ever happened to me.

And as the first light of dawn starts to break through the window, I know that no title, no championship, is ever going to fill the hole she’s left behind.