I hated myself the moment I saw your message.

“Happy anniversary.” “Wish you were here.”

Your words blink up at me, soft and small on a cracked phone screen, and my chest feels like it’s caving in.

I stare at it, jaw tight, the locker room noise fading around me—the clang of lockers, the wet slap of towels, the bursts of laughter from teammates who have people waiting for them too, but somehow manage to show up.

I could have left practice early. Could have fought harder for time…

But I didn’t.

Now all I can do is picture you at the restaurant—our spot—sitting alone at a table for two while the waiter clears the second glass of wine you ordered out of habit. I see your fingers trace the rim of the empty glass. I see you checking your phone. Waiting.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard.

“I’m sorry.” “I’ll make it up to you.”

I delete the words before I can hit send. They look pathetic. They sound like every other excuse I’ve made.

“Yo, you coming out with us?” one of the guys calls from across the room.

“No,” I mutter, voice flat. “Not tonight.”

He shrugs, not hearing the edge in my tone, and disappears.

I’m still staring at the screen when your typing bubble appears. Three dots. Then:

“It’s okay. I know you’re busy.”

My stomach twists. You’re lying to me. I know that tone—short, careful, the one you use when you’re trying not to make me feel guilty.

“I’m not mad,” you add. “Just wish I mattered as much as practice.”

The last message breaks something in me. Rage boils under my skin.

Not at you.

Never at you.

But at myself. At football. At the endless cycle of choosing the game over the one person I want outside of it.

The locker room smells like sweat and regret. I grip the phone so hard my knuckles whiten.

I don’t text back right away.

I can’t.

Because I know if I do, it’ll be another apology you’ve already heard. Another promise I’ll break. And tonight—our night—you deserve more than that.