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Don’t. Not again.

But my eyes were already burning, and I knew the second I looked at that brass deadbolt…

I completely fell apart.

An ugly sob spilled out. Didn’t even need to see the thing, the memory alone was enough. I pressed my hand over my mouth and let it happen, shocked I had any tears left.

It has to be this way.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, inhaling and exhaling through my nose to calm my breathing. The forty-eight-hour window was nearly up.

I reached for my phone, shooting off a text.

Me:

I need a ride. First to the arena, then the airport. Can you come?

I watched the three dots appear almost immediately.

Itze:

What’s going on

Me:

Please, Itze

Those dots appeared and disappeared a few times before finally…

Itze:

I’m on my way.

I didn’t have a plan when I walked through the side entrance of the Stars Arena, just tucked my head down as I sped through the hall.

That was a lie. I had the beginnings of a plan, but was trying hard not to think about it too long so I wouldn’t chicken out.

ESPN was there today, at my suggestion. The Stars were partnering with them to do a segment series called The People Behind the Bench.

All the parts would be compiled into a polished documentary. But for marketing purposes, they were streaming some of the filming to their viewers.

Millions of viewers.

People with fingers at the ready to clip juicy moments that would live on the internet forever.

My gut turned sour and unsettled, the way it’d been since Tyra’s proposal. My hand hovered over the handle.

Ariella’s voice filtered through the door.

Fuck.

I pushed the door open.

A familiar reporter sat across from Ariella, a microphone between them. Camera equipment and lighting rigs littered the room. Five sets of eyes all turned to me, everyone shocked but my prima. She offered me a soft smile.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.”

I wasn’t.