The guard watches me a beat too long, then jerks his chin toward the stairs. “Two minutes. If he’s not here—”
“I heard you.”
He backs off, but the rule doesn’t. It presses in around me, tightening with every second I choose to stay.
Footsteps hit the concrete from the far corridor—heavy, fast, uncontained. Staff move with measured strides. Security drifts with bored shuffles. Players. The guard straightens like he’s bracing for impact, radio lifting toward his mouth.
“Hold,” I say before he can speak.
He gives me a look like I’m insane.
Then Gio Rossi rounds the corner, and the word hold turns into a joke my body tells on me.
He’s still in full gear minus the helmet, hair damp and flattened at the sides, sweat shining along his throat where the collar of his undershirt sticks. His jersey is half unlaced like he got impatient halfway through stripping it and decided friction was a better idea. There’s a red mark on his jaw that looks like someone tried to rearrange his face and failed.
His eyes lock on mine.
Everything else in the tunnel goes optional.
He slows—barely—like restraint is a muscle he has to clench on purpose. His chest rises once, deep, and I feel it in my own lungs like I’m the one coming down off violence.
“Zoë.”
His voice is rough. Worn down. Used up.
“Rossi.”
I keep mine level, and it costs me. “You’re late.”
He huffs a short laugh, pressure leaking through it. “Yeah?”
“You promised.” Not an accusation. A fact. A line item that gets honored.
His eyes flick to the guard, then back to me. “We have a problem?”
The guard shifts. “This area is restricted.”
Gio’s jaw tightens. “She’s with me.”
I see him doing the math—how much he wants this to be simple—and he still chooses it.
“Sir, protocol—”
Gio takes one step closer to me, not the guard. A choice. A statement. “Then protocol can write me up.”
The guard’s eyes narrow. “Coach will—”
“Coach can talk to me.” Gio’s voice doesn’t rise. It drops. “She’s here because I told her to be.”
His teammates spill past behind him—laughing, shoving, loud in the way men get loud when they’re trying to outrun adrenaline. One of them glances at me, does a double take, then keeps moving.
Visibility. Immediate. Dangerous.
Gio’s eyes don’t leave mine when he says, quieter, “You good?”
It’s an assessment. A check. Agency. Consent, in his language.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Your friend here was giving me two minutes.”
