Rain hammers the stadium lights as I crouch on the fifty-yard line, jersey soaked, breath ragged. Another dropped pass. Another roar from the crowd that sounds like judgment. My phone buzzes—one new message. It’s her. Samira. "Don’t forget: curfew is 10 PM. League’s watching." I grit my teeth. She’s been on me since day one—tracking my workouts, vetting my texts, even sitting in on therapy sessions. And yet, when I look up, she’s still there under the press box awning, notebook in hand, eyes locked on mine like she sees something no one else does.

Back at the complex, I find her waiting by my car. "You were late to recovery today," she says, voice steady. "Three minutes doesn’t count."

"It does when they’re filming for the docu-series," she replies, stepping closer. "They’re calling it 'Redemption or Ruin.' You’re the star."

I laugh bitterly. "And you’re the warden."

She doesn’t flinch. "I’m the only reason you’re still here."

A flash from the parking lot—a camera lens glinting in the dark. Someone’s watching. Again. I step toward her, instinct pulling me in. "Then tell me, Samira… are you protecting me? Or destroying me?"

Her breath catches. The space between us crackles. And for the first time, I wonder if she’s fighting this too.

But before either of us can move, her phone rings. The PR director. Her face hardens. Duty calls.

We can’t do this. We can’t even be seen talking this long.

So why does it feel like we already have?