Hamari’s POV

  The ice burned.

  His shoulder was numb, but the rest of his body felt too hot. Like his skin was still reacting to the pain even though the sting had already settled into something deeper. He wasn’t hearing the crowd anymore. Not Elijah, not Liam. Just white noise and pressure.

  And Malik’s voice.

  “It’s over.”

  He hadn’t meant for him to hear it. It was barely above a whisper, but it landed like a brick to the ribs. Malik wasn’t the type to say things he didn’t mean.

  Hamari stared at the court, jaw locked so tight it ached.

  He’d played through worse. He’d told himself that. Over and over. Every time the shoulder twinged in practice. Every time Elijah gave him that look. Every time he told the coach, “I’m fine.”

  But he wasn’t fine.

  And now everyone knew.

  The worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the silence.

  The kind that settles in when people don’t know what to say. When they’re trying to be helpful, but their eyes say something else.

  Pity. Worry. Doubt.

  He’d worked too hard for that look. Built too much around being unshakeable. He was supposed to be the one people counted on. The one who didn’t fold.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  So why did his hands feel cold?

  Why did his stomach twist every time someone looked at him?

  Even Malik. Especially Malik.

  All season, it had been this. No days off. No skipped drills. No missed lifts. Even when his body screamed, he bit down and kept going. Because that’s what winners did. That’s what he did.

  And now—he was sitting on the bench, iced up, useless.

  Part of him wanted to rip the wrap off and get back in. Show them he wasn’t done. That they couldn’t count him out.

  But the other part—the part that kept whispering what if it really is over—was louder.

  Then he heard it.

  His name—sharper than the rest of the noise. Softer, too.

  “Hamari!”

  He turned his head before he could stop himself.

  And there she was.

  The girl from the stands. The one who’d been watching him all game—not like a fan, but like she was studying him. He’d noticed her in the first half when she leaned forward, hair half covering her face, eyes locked in. She hadn’t cheered. She hadn’t smiled. She’d just watched—like she saw something more than the game.

  And now she was standing. Calling out.

  His gaze met hers. And for a second, it held.

  She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t crying either. Just standing there, lips parted, eyebrows slightly pinched. Like his pain had become hers, and she didn’t even understand why.

  Neither did he.

  But something about it shook him.

  Not like the injury. Not like Malik’s words.

  This was smaller. Quieter.

  But deeper.

  It reached a place none of the other noise could.

  There was something in her eyes that didn’t ask him to be strong. Didn’t ask him to explain or pretend or push through. Just saw him.

  And for a second, that scared him more than the injury.

  He looked away.

  He couldn’t hold that gaze any longer. Couldn’t let her see him like this. Not when his entire body felt like it had failed him. Not when the voice in his head kept repeating you let them down.

  But still… her voice stayed with him.

  Not because it was loud. But because it wasn’t. Because it cut through everything else. Because it reached him when nothing else had.

  For a moment, he hated that.

  For a moment, he needed it.