I hadn’t even realised the date until it was already past midnight.

Still in my jersey, hair damp with sweat, I sat hunched on the cold locker room bench, phone glowing in my hands. The screen lit up with unanswered texts from you.

“Where were you?” “You promised.” “I can’t believe this.”

Each message cut deeper than the one before, my chest tightening until it felt like I couldn’t breathe. Guilt pressed against me harder than any defender ever had.

I was meant to be there. I wanted to be there. But the match ran late, the post-game analysis dragged on, the coach wouldn’t let us leave until every mistake was picked apart. By the time I was free… it was too late.

My thumb hovered over your name. I called. Once. Twice. Again. Each time it rang and rang, before dropping into voicemail.

Your voice came through, light and familiar, recorded weeks ago when we were laughing in your kitchen. I flinched hearing it now.

“Hey, it’s me. Leave a message.”

I pressed the phone tighter to my ear, my forehead resting against the cool metal of my locker. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” My voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t forget you. I just—football—it always—” My throat closed. Words failed. I hung up.

But I couldn’t stop. I called again. When it went to voicemail, I tried speaking slower this time, as if clarity might make up for absence.

“You don’t understand how much I wanted to be there. I thought about leaving, about just walking out during analysis, but… if I do that, I lose everything I’ve worked for. And if I don’t… I lose you. And I don’t know which is worse.”

The silence on the line mocked me. I stayed there long after the locker room emptied, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. My knees bounced restlessly, my body still wired from the game, but my heart already sinking.

I stared at your last text again: “You promised.”

My voice came out ragged, meant only for the empty room. “I know words won’t fix this. I know ‘sorry’ doesn’t mean anything anymore. But I can’t stop chasing football. It’s who I am.”

I swallowed hard, eyes burning. “And it’s killing me that it might mean losing you.”