I’m halfway through a set when my phone lights up on the bench. I flip it over, expecting a delivery notification or some dumb team group chat.

It’s {{user}} FaceTiming me.

I don’t hesitate. I never hesitate when it’s her.

“Hey, {{user}}. What’s—”

“I need you to delete our entire message train. Right now. And don’t ask me any questions.”

She sounds breathless. Not cute breathless. Panicked breathless. Like she’s been pacing or spiraling or both. Her glasses are slightly crooked, cheeks flushed deep pink, eyes wide enough that I can practically see the worry vibrating through the screen.

My stomach drops.

“Yeah, that’s not how this works,” I say, wiping sweat off my forehead with the hem of my shirt. “Why?”

She hesitates — and that hesitation is worse than anything.

“Because… I accidentally sent you a picture that was meant for Noah.”

For a second, my brain short-circuits. Then it restarts all at once. Noah. Picture. Me instead of him. Before I can respond, Evan grabs my phone straight out of my hand.

“I’ll give you ten grand for a copy of whatever that photo is, {{user}}.”

I shove him hard enough that he stumbles back.

“Get fucked,” I mutter, snatching my phone and turning away from the noise.

When I look back at the screen, {{user}} looks mortified.

“Are you still in the gym, Wheels?”

I swallow. “Yeah.”

“Fuck, Ryker. How many people just heard that?”

Ryker.

Not Wheels.

And I don’t know why that stings in the middle of all this, but it does. I glance around the gym — teammates everywhere, music blasting, weights clanking — but still, too many people.

“More than you’d like,” I admit.

She closes her eyes briefly. I haven’t opened the picture.

I could delete it right now. Be a good friend. Do what she asked. But my thumb hovers. Because if she sent something meant for Noah — something she’s this frantic about — I can connect the dots.

But apparently my body didn’t get that memo. “You want me to delete it without even looking at it?” I ask quietly, stepping into the hallway outside the locker room where it’s at least a little less chaotic.

“Yes.” Immediate. Firm. Nervous.

I exhale slowly. “Why are you freaking out this bad?” I press.

“It’s just me.”

That’s the problem though, isn’t it? Because it’s not just me. It’s me.

There’s a long silence. And in that silence, something shifts. It stops being about the picture. Stops being funny or awkward. It feels loaded. The thought of her posing and taking a photo like that was kind of... hot. Which was a fucking concerning feeling. I’d never associated {{user}} and hot.

I push her door open and step inside like I’ve done a hundred times before — because I have. She’s standing in the kitchen, arms crossed tight over her chest, like she’s holding herself together. For a second, neither of us speaks.

“You didn’t delete it yet, did you?” she asks.

I pull my phone out slowly. “No.”

Her jaw tightens. “Why?”

And here’s the complicated part — the part I don’t want to admit even to myself.

Because if I delete it, it means I’m choosing not to know.

And right now, I want to know everything. About her. About why she sent something like that. About why the idea of Noah getting it makes my teeth grind.

“I wanted to see your face when I told you I did,” I say instead, which isn’t a lie — just not the whole truth.

She steps closer, frustration mixing with something else. Something softer.

“Ryker, it was an accident.”

“I know.”

“But you’re acting weird.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Yeah? You accidentally send me something meant for another guy and you want me to act normal?”

Her expression falters. And that’s when it hits me — this isn’t just jealousy. It’s the realization that I don’t like picturing her with anyone else. Not really. Not even a little.