Chapter 36 FORMER BU TRACK QUEEN
RYAN
I wake up to an empty bed.
For a second, my brain panics—last night feels too sharp, too real, to have vanished by morning. But then I hear clattering from downstairs, the low hum of voices, and the faint smell of coffee drifting up the stairs.
Sean.
My boyfriend.
God, even just thinking it makes me smile. My boyfriend who apparently decided to keep his post-win promise and actually make me coffee. The bar is low, but he clears it by a mile.
I stretch, tugging his crumpled t-shirt back over my shoulder before padding barefoot toward the stairs. My legs are sore—different sore than I'm used to—but I bite back the ache. This is worth it.
The kitchen is alive in that messy, morning-after way: Mason perched on the counter with a mug, Ty fiddling with the toaster, Zach scrolling on his phone like he's searching for the cure to a hangover. And Sean—he looks up the second I walk in, hair a wreck, holding out a mug like it's some kind of peace offering.
"Morning," he says softly, eyes searching mine.
"Morning," I echo, taking the coffee, feeling stupidly giddy. Until Mason pipes up.
"Well, if it isn't BU's newest power couple."
I freeze. "Excuse me?"
Ty winces. Zach doesn't even look up—he just mutters, "Don't shoot the messenger." Then he tilts his phone toward me. And there it is.
A headline in bold letters, some fan account blowing up: From track to puck bunny: Meet Scarlett McKenna.
My stomach knots. "Oh no, tell me that they didn't use my government name..."
"There's more," Zach says grimly. "Way more."
I snatch the phone, scrolling before Sean can stop me. My hands go cold. Article after article, comment after comment—screenshots of me in the stands, in his jersey, his arm around me outside the arena. Edited videos with captions that sting: Cap Callahan's injured charity case. Former BU Track Queen. Guess Olympics 2028 is a no-go.
I don't realize I'm reading aloud until my own voice cuts through the kitchen. "'Scarlett McKenna's so-called comeback dreams have been shut down with two severe injuries in as many a year, and countless minor injuries reported since her career at BU started. This relationship is her consolation prize—forget the Olympics, she's the captain's girlfriend now.'"
The words taste like acid. My throat burns.
Mason hops off the counter, grabbing the phone out of my hands. "Okay, nope. You don't need to read that garbage."
"It's not garbage." My voice cracks. "It's—true."
Ty shakes his head fiercely. "No, Ry. It's spin. That's not you. They don't know you."
I laugh, brittle and sharp. "Don't they? Failed athlete. Two surgeries before twenty-two. Couldn't even stick the landing back to nationals." I glance at Sean, who looks like he's ready to punch a wall. "Kind of hard to argue with facts."
"Ry," he says, voice low but edged with steel. "Don't. Don't let this in. You know who you are. I know who you are. That's what matters."
"But it is who I am. Isn't it? They did a pretty good job at summarizing my misery, I'll give them that." My chest is tight, breath shaky. "You think I don't already hear this in my own head every day? And now it's out there for everyone to dissect? For your teammates, your coaches, your—your fans to drag me for?"
Sean steps forward, jaw tight. "Screw the fans. Screw the noise. They don't get to define you."
Something in me snaps. "Easy for you to say when your name's followed by highlight reels and trophies. Mine's followed by injury reports and failed dreams apparently."
The silence after that feels heavy. Mason shifts uncomfortably. Ty mutters something under his breath, too quiet to catch.
Sean's voice drops, rougher now. "Don't compare yourself to me. That's not what this is."
"You're not my consolation prize. You know that, right?" I whisper.
"Of course, I do."
"'kay." I murmur to myself, mostly.
The room holds its breath. Sean looks like he wants to argue, wants to shake me until I believe him. But I can't meet his eyes. Not when the words from that screen are still screaming in my head louder than anything else.
So I sip the coffee he made me, bitter on my tongue, and pretend it doesn't taste like ash.
The silence is pressing in, suffocating. My chest feels too tight, my pulse hammering with every headline replaying in my head.
Then Ty clears his throat. Loudly. "Okay, enough of this doom scroll spiral. We all get dragged online. It's like... a rite of passage or whatever."
I glance at him, skeptical. "Really? You've had people dissect your entire career and declare it over at twenty-two?"
He raises a finger like he's about to make a grand point. "Maybe not that exact phrasing. But." He whips out his phone, scrolling furiously. Then he groans, face going red. "Here. Exhibit A."
He turns the screen around. It's a screenshot from some old forum thread. 'Ty Alvarez: goalie with a panic attack problem? The BU net is in danger every time he gets in his head.'
Ty winces. "They posted that after I puked behind the net sophomore year. Once. Once! And the cameras caught it. Now it's immortalized."
I blink. "Wait—you puked mid-game?"
Mason snorts. "Dude, it was like The Exorcist."
"Shut up!" Ty hurls a piece of toast at him, which Mason catches midair like it's nothing.
Mason hops off the counter, grinning. "Fine, my turn. Wanna know what they said about me? Senior year of high school, there was this fake Twitter account—'MasonCrossLovesHisMom97.' The entire feed was screenshots of me and my mom's Facebook comments. Like, 'look at my baby boy scoring goals, so proud!'" He clutches his chest dramatically. "Do you know how hard it is to flirt with anyone when the top search result for your name is you being a mommy's boy?"
I bite back a laugh, the knot in my chest loosening despite myself. "That's... actually kind of sweet."
"Sweet?!" Mason groans. "Try walking into a locker room after that."
Ty's grinning now. "Okay, okay. But Zach's takes the cake."
Zach, who's been pretending to be invisible in the corner, finally looks up. "Don't."
Ty's already cackling. "Freshman year, someone dug up a TikTok of him doing a thirst trap dance. Shirtless. With—get this—finger guns at the end."
"Oh my god," I gasp, covering my mouth.
Mason claps his hands. "Wait, wait, the caption was even better—'Hughes the Heartthrob.' Alliteration, baby."
Zach's ears are bright red. "That was... research. For a class project."
"Research my ass," Mason wheezes, nearly falling over. "That video had like fifty thousand likes before you deleted it."
I can't help it—I start laughing. Really laughing. The kind of laugh that shakes the tension right out of me, that makes my stomach ache in a way that feels so much better than all the garbage headlines ever could.
Sean's still watching me, eyes soft but serious, and I know this doesn't fix everything. The words on those screens don't just vanish because the guys reminded me of their own humiliations. But it helps. It reminds me I'm not the only one who gets torn apart for sport.
He steps closer, his hand brushing my elbow. "Come with me," he murmurs.
Before I can argue, he's already guiding me out of the kitchen, past Mason's raised brows and Ty's half-smile, down the short hallway to his room. He closes the door behind us and the noise fades like someone turned the volume down on the whole world.
"Pretend it's just us for a minute," he says quietly.
I swallow, nodding.
"Close your eyes, Ry."
There's something in his voice that makes me obey. I let my lashes flutter shut, inhaling. His hands settle lightly at my waist, warm and steady.
"Tell me," he murmurs, his breath brushing my temple. "What do you feel when you think about us?"
I let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, then another. "I feel..." My voice comes out softer than I expect. "Like I can breathe again. Like I'm not falling anymore." My throat tightens. "Like I'm not broken."
His thumbs trace small circles at my hips. "Now," he says, voice low and even, "search your mind for any time, any memory, where other people mattered more than us. Anyone else—fans, comments, noise. Anything."
I sort through it. All the noise, all the headlines that were ever written about me, or him, every time I've been told who I am. And there's nothing. Nothing except him and me. "Not one time," I whisper.
His forehead comes to rest against mine, and I can feel the smile ghosting across his lips. "That's right, Ry," he says, the words vibrating through both of us. "These people online don't matter now and they never will. I will never walk away from you, you hear me? You're it for me. You're mine, and I'll protect you from this shit. I will."
The air between us hums. His hands slide up my back until one cups the back of my neck. Our foreheads are pressed together, eyes still closed, and I can feel his breath on my mouth like a promise.
"I'm scared, Sean," I whisper.
"I know," he says, voice rough. "But I'm here."
When I open my eyes, he's right there—close enough to blur everything else out. His gaze is fierce and tender all at once, like he's trying to anchor me to the floor with it.
And for the first time all morning, the headlines fade. The kitchen fades. The whole world tilts until it's just him and me and the space between our mouths.
I don't think. I just lean in, catching his lips with mine. It's not a frantic kiss like last night—it's slower, heavier, full of all the words we haven't said yet. His fingers thread through my hair, his other hand at the small of my back, holding me there.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my mouth.
And somehow, I believe him.