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“Did you eat?” she asks. “I ordered Chinese. There’s extra.”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

She nods like she expected that answer, then disappears down the hall. A few minutes later I hear her bedroom door shut and the low thump of music through the wall.

Silence again.

I exhale and let my shoulders drop.

Still getting used to that—having a door that closes, a couch to sink into, a place where I’m not sharing a wall with six other interns or listening to someone else’s bad breakup through paper-thin drywall.

My room’s barely unpacked. The mattress is on the floor, boxes against the wall, and the closet still smells like someone else’s cologne. I tug my hoodie over my head and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the closet mirror.

Hair tied back. Bags under my eyes. T-shirt from my undergrad. I look like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Because I haven’t.

I moved in three nights ago, and I’ve been chasing quiet ever since.

I sit on the edge of the bed and rub my hands over my face.

It’s not that the job is hard—yet. It’s the pressure. The second-guessing. The feeling that one misstep and they’ll all know I am much more fucked up than I pretend to be.

I was happy to move, but now that happiness is slipping. The threats from my ex are at the forefront of my mind on a loop I don’t know how to escape.

It’s like that night lives rent-free in my head, and being around athletic men is starting to get to me.

But I don’t want to think about that right now.

Instead, I open my laptop and pull up the player wellness logs.

Player #12 – limited shoulder rotation, post-op

Player #36 – high ankle instability, responsive to tape

Player #91 – forward, compensation pattern on right side. Refuses evaluation.

That last one sticks in my head longer than it should.

Slater Castellano.

That’s him. #91

Talent, sure. But trouble, too. Discipline issues. Fines. Warnings.

Thank God he’s walking past me like I don’t exist. I need to be background noise.

Keep a low profile and stay out of these athlete’s way.

I can’t have a replay of what happened at San Diego.

I shower fast and pull on leggings and a tank top. My skin’s dry—too much recycled air, not enough sunlight—and I make a mental note to pick up better lotion.

By the time I’m in the kitchen, Emma’s back out, perched on a stool scrolling through her phone.

“Want tea?” she asks.

I nod. “Thanks.”

She pours me a cup from the electric kettle and slides it across the counter.