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“There’s nothing there. We hate each other, Karlie.”

"Sure you do." I could hear the smile in her voice. "That's why you're out running at midnight, thinking about her instead of sleeping."

I said nothing. There was nothing to say that wouldn't be a lie.

"Don't make the same mistake you made with me," Karlie said quietly. "Don't let this one walk away because you're too scared to be honest. Don't wake up three years from now and realize you chose wrong again."

"There's nothing happening. We had a fight. Okay, two. But that's it."

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"I believe you." She didn't. We both knew she didn't. "But Cam? When you retire in two years and the endorsements eventually dry up and you're not Captain Russo anymore, who are you going to be?"

The question hit like a blind-side screen, catching me in the chest where it hurt most. Where I was most vulnerable.

"I don't know."

"Exactly." Karlie's voice was gentle again. "That's the real problem, isn't it? You've been Captain Cameron for so long, you don't know who Cam is anymore. You've built this perfect public image and lived inside it for so long, you've forgotten there's supposed to be a person underneath."

We said goodbye after that, awkward but kind, the way ex-lovers who still care about each other do. Karlie had moved on, was dating someone, apparently. Someone who wasn't afraid to be seen with her. Someone brave enough to love her publicly.

I wished her well, and I meant it.

Standing on that perfect suburban sidewalk for a long time after we hung up, phone in my hand, I stared at nothing and everything. The houses around me glowed with warm light and hidden lives, families and couples and people who'd figured out how to be themselves without it costing them everything.

Harper's Instagram was still open on my phone. I hadn't closed it since before dinner, hadn't been able to stop looking, hadn't been able to stop trying to understand the woman who'd seen through me so completely.

Her latest story was from tonight, posted two hours ago. A wine glass, nearly empty, the last dark dregs clinging to the bottom. Caption: "processing."

One word. Simple. Honest. More real than anything I'd posted in twelve years.

I scrolled back further, looking for something I couldn't name. Found the post from two years ago—Harper wrapped in a bisexual flag, the colors bright against her smooth dark skin, staring at the camera with a defiance that looked like courage, like strength, like everything I'd never let myself be.

Here's to living honestly. To being exactly who I am, even when it costs everything.

I closed Instagram and opened my own feed to look at what Karlie had called fear, what Harper had called fake, what I'd always told myself was necessary.

Game highlights in perfect slow-motion. Charity galas with forced smiles. Training shots that showed discipline and dedication and nothing real. Nothing that could be used against me. Nothing that would scare away sponsors or make league executives nervous or give anyone a reason to question my professionalism.

Nothing that was actually me.

I pocketed my phone and walked home. My legs were stiff now, muscles cooling down, the burn settling into the deep ache that meant I'd pushed too hard. I'd pay for this run tomorrow at practice, struggle through drills with tight hamstrings and protesting quads.

Worth it.

The house was dark when I got back. Empty. Always empty, no matter how many championship trophies lined the shelves or how much the mortgage payment proved I'd made it.

I showered, standing under water hot enough to sting, trying not to hear Harper's voice cutting through the steam. Tried not to remember her across that dinner table, fury and hurt written across her face in equal measure, beautiful in her anger, devastating in her honesty.

Failed on both counts.

By the time I climbed into bed, it was past two AM. Practice in less than four hours. My body needed sleep, needed recovery time if I was going to perform at the level expected of me.

Instead, I lay there in the dark and let myself remember what I'd been trying to forget.

The dress.