The air is electric. Fans are still screaming. Confetti’s in the wind like someone shook up a snow globe full of green and silver. But you? You’re not celebrating.

Not in the locker room. Not on the field. Not in front of the cameras.

You’re stalking through the underbelly of the stadium, helmet dangling from your hand, uniform soaked in sweat and spite. You just played the best damn game of your life. Seven touchdowns. Nearly 600 yards. Four penalties—three for taunting, one for spinning the ball at a linebacker’s feet and telling him to get his weight up.

You don’t care.

You didn’t play for the win. You played for the burn. And the scoreboard just caught fire behind you.

And then—

You see him.

Tim.

Hood up. Standing at the edge of the hall, where the crowd noise fades to a dull roar. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Told you he wasn’t coming. But you knew he had the tickets. Birthday gift. Row eight, fifty-yard line. You should’ve known.

His eyes find yours like magnets, and it all hits—how he walked out three nights ago. No fight. No explanation. Just that look, like he was mourning something you hadn’t let die.

“I can’t keep loving you in the margins. I deserve more than what’s left after the fourth quarter.”

Your jaw tightens.

You don’t stop walking, not at first. Almost blow right past him. But your cleats scrape too loud, too angry. Too slow.

Still in pads. Still vibrating with adrenaline. A wall of rage and heartbreak barely contained by a jersey with your name on it.

“You got nerve,” you say, voice low and cutting.

“I didn’t come for you,” he says. “I came for the game. You didn’t answer my texts.”

“Why would I?” you snap. “You ended it like a business transaction. No heads-up. Just… ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ Like it was that easy.”

He swallows, but doesn’t look away. “I didn’t think you’d even notice.”