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I barely hear a damn thing after the door shuts.

Coach is barking—loud, pissed, arms swinging like he can beat the answers out of the air. PR’s already here. Suits. Tense shoulders. Rapid-fire words.

"Press embargo."

"Get ahead of it."

"Statement tomorrow."

I don’t move. Just lean back against the wall like maybe it’ll hold me up better than I can.

All I see is her.

Olivia.

The second that kid started talking, her whole face changed. Not shock.

Worse.

Disbelief. Not like she didn’t believe the kid, like she couldn’t believe I would do something like that.

The door cracks open. A fresh wave of noise slams in—flashes popping, voices barking, someone yelling for Coach at the end of the hall.

Kane slips in and shuts it fast. Leans back against it like he’s holding the world out with his spine.

His jaw’s clenched. His eyes find mine, and they stay there. Watching. Calculating.

PR keeps talking—some guy from corporate now, clipboard in hand, throwing around phrases like “controlled narrative” and “mitigation strategy” like any of this is still salvageable.

Coach doesn’t even look at them.

His focus’s on me.

“Don’t bullshit me—how much of that kid’s story holds water?”

I don’t answer.

“Who was he?”

Nothing.

"You think this goes away if you keep your mouth shut?"

Still nothing.

I don't care about optics. Sponsors. Shitstorm headlines.

Kane steps forward, voice quiet, careful. “Seb.”

I don’t move.

"Where’s Olivia?"It comes out rough. Clipped. Almost like I didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Kane shifts. “I don’t know.”

My hands drag over my face, rough and useless. I feel like I’m peeling skin just trying to stay upright. The buzz in my head won’t stop. Can’t think over it. Can’t breathe under it.

Kane steps closer. “Sebastian, come on. Talk to me, man. Just… take a breath. You don’t have to explain it all to them. But I need you to stay in this room. We can work this.”

I shake my head. Not because he’s wrong, but because it’s already too late.

“She’s not going to forgive me for this."

“You don’t know that,” Kane says, voice steady but thin. “She’s probably still here. Probably trying to figure this out just like you are.”

I laugh—dry, humorless. “Yeah? You think she wants to figure out how to stay with a guy who ruined a fucking family?”

“Sebastian”Coach cuts in, loud and barking again. “We don’t have time for a damn breakdown. We need control over this narrative?—”

The pressure snaps something in me.

I turn, fast. Voice sharp, low, done .

“What do you want?” I spit. “The truth?”

Everyone goes still.

I step forward.

“It’s all fucking true, okay?” My voice is louder now. Rough. “Every damn word that kid said was fucking true. You wanna print something? Print that.”

Coach opens his mouth, but I don’t let him.

“I don’t give a shit about spin. Let the press destroy me. Let them rake me through the mud and light it on fire. I deserve it.”

Silence swells, heavy and stunned.

Then I walk.

Kane reaches for my arm. “Don’t do this?—”

I stop. Look at him.

And whatever he sees in my eyes makes him back off.

I keep going. Push through the door, through the thick noise outside—the burst of camera flashes, the voices, the static buzz of radios and stress. Someone calls my name. I don’t turn.

I head for the lobby. Scan the crowd. Hallways. Side exits. Bathrooms. Nothing.

I ask a volunteer if they’ve seen Olivia.

She frowns, apologetic. “I think she left about twenty minutes ago.”

Of course she did.

Why the hell would she still be here?

My jaw clenches. Something twists in my chest. But I’m too far gone to feel it right.

Numb.

I walk outside.

Cold air hits me but doesn’t help. Doesn’t clear anything. Doesn’t ease the pressure behind my ribs or the ache in my fucking spine.

The street’s half-empty. People drifting like smoke, none of them her.

Just the weight of every fucking thing I destroyed.