You slammed your locker shut so hard the bench rattled. Heads turned. Boots paused mid-lace. The hum of post-match chatter died like a switch had been flipped.

Jamie didn’t even flinch.

“You playing next week?” he asked, voice too even, too practiced. Like this was normal. Like you were still just lads on the same squad.

You stared at him. “Still pretending, then?”

A few of the boys shifted awkwardly. One of the younger subs glanced between you and Jamie, unsure whether to stay or bolt.

Jamie tilted his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, don’t do that,” you snapped. “Don’t act like this is nothing. Like you didn’t—” Your voice cracked off. You swallowed. “Like you didn’t light the match and then walk away when it started to burn.”

Murmurs. Boots scraped tile. No one dared speak, but no one looked away either.

Jamie stood slowly, tossing his towel onto the bench. “This really what you want? Here? Now?”

“It’s already happening,” you said. “Everyone’s thinking it, might as well hear it too.”

He met your stare, jaw set like stone. “I never asked for this.”

“No,” you barked, “you just let it happen. You kissed me, Jamie. You meant it. And the second the door shut, the second it got real, you acted like I made it all up.”

Someone coughed. The physio quietly backed out of the room.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Jamie muttered.

“But you did,” you snapped. “And now you hide behind tactics and banter and that bullshit ‘lads’ smile. But here’s the truth—those boys,” you said, gesturing around the locker room, “they pass me the ball. They back me in every tackle. They hold me closer on the pitch than you ever did.”

Jamie looked away. Couldn’t even deny it.