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There’s some grumbling from the reporters, but they back off. My blood’s running colder now. The buzz from the game’s fading, replaced by something else. A tightness under my ribs I can’t shake.

An hour later, I finally escape. I head to the team bus, shove my gear into the overhead compartment, and sink into my seat with a sigh. My body’s tired, but my mind won’t stop racing.

First thing—check my phone again.

Still nothing. I call her. Straight to voicemail.

I frown, dialing again. Same thing.

No missed calls. No unread texts. Just silence.

Maybe her phone died. Maybe she and Thalia are still packing or catching up and she just forgot. I shoot a quick text to Thalia.

Nick: Hey. You still with my wife? I’m trying to reach her but her phone’s off. Everything okay?

The message’s delivered but never read. A hollow feeling settles low in my gut.

I stare at the screen for a few seconds longer than I should, willing it to light up.

By the time we reach the hotel, I’m unsettled. The whole team’s celebrating in the bar downstairs, laughing, drinking, replaying goals on their phones. I should be thrilled. But something gnaws at me.

I sit with the guys, nursing a drink, laughing at something stupid Chase says, but my mind keeps drifting back to her. Again and again.

Why hasn’t she called?

I reach for my phone again. Still nothing. I almost text Liam but stop myself.

Don’t be that guy. Don’t be paranoid.

She’s probably still with Thalia. Both of them tired from packing. Distracted. Right?

But deep down, I feel it. Something’s wrong. And I have no idea what the hell it is.

The glass touches my lips, but the whiskey burns like ash. I barely taste it.

Laughter and chatter fill the hotel bar, the guys still celebrating like they should after a win like tonight. But for me, it’s all background noise. My mind isn’t here.

I can’t stay here, waiting.

I push off the barstool and head toward the elevator. I need to get out of here, need to think. Need to call Sierra one more time.

Just then I hear it.

“Nick.”

Her voice grates on my nerves like glass on concrete. I turn to see Samantha, flanked by the media girls, strutting toward me with that fake smile she always wears when she’s trying too hard.

She’s dressed like she’s going to a club, not a team gathering, and before I can react, she’s right in front of me, laying a hand on my chest.

“That was an amazing game. You were absolutely on fire,” she purrs, dragging her fingers a little lower.

I grab her wrist before she can go any further.

My tone is low, dangerous.

“Samantha, for the last time—stop. I don’t remember a damn thing from that night you keep bringing up. And if something did happen? Then I must’ve been so drunk I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. I don’t want you. Get that through your head,”

She flinches, her smile vanishing. Everyone is silent, watching. And then, just as she opens her mouth to speak, her phone buzzes in her purse.