Page 149 of Game Misconduct

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No missed calls.

No texts.

Not even a meme.

The space between us used to buzz with static. With heat. With the things we didn’t say out loud but still knew.

Now it’s just air. Cold and quiet.

I tap the screen again like that might change something.

Still nothing.

The last time we spoke, I asked for space. Maybe not in so many words.

But I pulled back just the same, giving him some flimsy ass excuse.

I shut the door because I didn’t know how to walk through it without breaking.

And that’s on me.

But part of me—some small, traitorous, aching part—still thought he’d reach back anyway.

A single message. One line.

Even just“You okay?”

I open the viral clip. Not the one from the news outlets, but the raw fan footage from a parent’s Instagram story.

Finn waves, spins, flashes half the crowd, then almost flashes the rest.

The angle shifts, panning to the crowd behind the glass.

And there he is.

Maddox.

Frozen in the background, jaw tight, hands curled at his sides like he’s holding back the urge to punch something.

I pause the frame.

His eyes don’t track the camera. They track Finn. The incident. The fallout.

He saw it all.

And he didn’t call.

I stare at his face, searching for something—regret, frustration, maybe even guilt.

But the still image doesn’t give me any of that. Just the sharp angles of a man who keeps everything locked behind his ribs.

I should’ve reached out.

Should’ve told him I was scared.

That I wasn’t shutting him out—I was just trying to breathe without needing him so much.

But I didn’t.

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